


flower petals & damning words

by ToastedBagel1



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Background Relationships, Confused Javert, Cuddling & Snuggling, First Kiss, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Gardens & Gardening, Hanahaki Disease, Heavy Angst, Hurt/Comfort, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Idiots in Love, Illnesses, Implied/Referenced Suicide attempt, Long-Haired Javert, M/M, Mental Breakdown, Minor Cosette Fauchelevent/Marius Pontmercy, Miscommunication, Mutual Pining, Near Death Experiences, Nightmares, Oblivious Jean Valjean, Roommates, Scars, Sharing a Bed, Suicidal Thoughts, THEYRE SO DUMB LIKE, Very angst, Vomiting, but i will fix it!!!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-21
Updated: 2020-09-21
Packaged: 2021-03-07 19:21:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 23,241
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26572882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ToastedBagel1/pseuds/ToastedBagel1
Summary: Javert pushed things down. Hid them away. Constantly, for it was nothing more than a way of life until the words he couldn’t bring himself to say- until those damning, but utterly beautiful thoughts began to bloom on every breath.
Relationships: Javert & Jean Valjean, Javert/Jean Valjean
Comments: 10
Kudos: 29
Collections: Sewerchat Anniversary Exchange 2020





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [magicpiano](https://archiveofourown.org/users/magicpiano/gifts).



> Hanahaki disease featuring Valjean and Javert- love this prompt so much!  
> Happy sewerexchange, stay safe!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi there! First 20,000+ word fanfic I have created in quite a while for Les Mis- but a few warnings before you continue!  
> This story includes:  
> -Mention of suicide attempt  
> -Gore  
> -Throwing up (flowers specifically)  
> -Mental breakdowns  
> -Nightmares  
> -Suicidal thoughts (no actions)
> 
> Please exit out if any of these things are bothering you or possibly putting you in an unsafe situation.  
> Stay safe and enjoy!

Javert always had bad timing. But- he still couldn’t fathom why- it had to be flowers. Goddamn flowers.

He couldn’t pinpoint the extent of his fixation, whether it was ankle or neck deep, nor why it happened, but it began shortly after a former mayor started cradling him to sleep. Javert’s mother used to hold him with every ounce of caring that Valjean held- or so he believed, a sort of comfort, the smallest amount Javert could offer himself. But that touch changed something. Sparked an emotion: unwilling to leave his lips, but ever since fishing him out of the Seine, Valjean did nothing more than touch. Always brutally gentle and sentimental and _happy_ , it was something Javert did not know. But- it seemed like a distant memory- he had been bedridden, venomous and more than prepared to die, but the ridiculous man refused to let him perish under the waters, refused to let him weather the storm alone- and read gardening books to him instead. 

And when Valjean led him to the garden, sun hit his face and lit up his features as if he regarded it for the first time- and in a way he did. Valjean had breathed an exasperated, however fond, sigh of relief because playing tug o' war with a man who simply wants to let go of the rope is like wrangling a cat into clothes.

The first few months were awful to say the least. Javert woke up- if he had been sleeping- pulled himself out of Valjean’s bed, and found his way back to the bridge. Shout at Valjean in the middle of the street that he was a _manipulator,_ a _criminal! Bastard! Get away from me!_ But Valjean would give him a gentle scolding, shake his head, and coax the other back to bed, as if they were old friends, old lovers. Of course, the inspector would sleep until noon, and apologize for the earlier actions that he was only half sure were real. Well, _his_ way of apologizing. He’d bow his head, refused to refer to Valjean as anything but _monsieur_ for the first months- but occasionally rotated between Monsieur Madeleine- a man long dead- the man’s prison number, or Valjean, despite countless pleads to simply be called by his first name. Javert had always been prickly.

This alarmed Valjean at times. Watching the man lapse throughout being truly venomous, witnessing him snarl as he looked himself in the mirror, jerking away harshly from physicality. But these actions: they were an assurance, that Javert, though buried deep, was still there. But those moments where Javert hid away somewhere in the depths of his mind, staying curled up in bed the entire day, eyes glazed over and silent- Valjean truly became afraid. These happenings never lasted forever, Javert would always find his way back to his wolfish self that made Valjean snort with amusement, but it made the former mayor flinch at the idea that he could not help if the man caved in completely.

And then Valjean introduced him to gardening, and- the more peculiar of the two- well, cuddling. 

Valjean had been pressing flowers, flattening the petals in between pages with a smile: the activity had been from his childhood. Javert scowled, but set himself down next to the man, and stared. He did not even attempt to hide his blatant curiosity. And then it struck Valjean: of course! Javert had never seen much nature, the situation must have looked truly insane to him. So, he gently guided Javert’s hands as he pressed down the blossom in the book, staring at the ones already properly pressed. _See?_ Valjean had said. _They may seem like nothing more than silly plants, however, through this, we can honor them. Foliage never truly dies, I don’t believe anyone dies for that matter- if we remember, we can honor them during their time in paradise._ And then: A miracle. Javert nodded. He squinted at the flowers thoughtfully, huffed, and asked where he had gotten the blossoms. 

Valjean was delighted. Javert’s pure curiosity as he was shown the garden, examined wordlessly as Valjean plucked flowers, and perhaps the first smile in too long rose to his lips. _I would like to plant something,_ he said. 

It started out slow, they first had to push past multiple breakdowns in the middle of the garden, Javert shaking with fury while staring at the foliage. _I_ _kill every single thing I touch,_ he would declare, returning into the house and when he returned, he became the inspector again. Shoulders straight, deep, stern lines in the corners of his mouth, but even when given a fresh bouquet of flowers, the flinch was unmistakable. 

However once Valjean began touching Javert, this changed. The softness of his fingers in the most casual of actions- pressures on his shoulder, hand, wrist, leading him towards the best book on the shelf, towards a flower perfect for a bouquet. And it worked. For some inane, bizarre in all it’s nature, it worked. Results came quickly. He would be greeted in the morning, his housemate giving a small, almost humorous salute, and asked how his night had been. Javert stopped sleeping in the other’s bed, no longer needing the support on his broken ribs and leg, and instead, Valjean found himself disappointed that he no longer had anyone to read to at night. So instead, he’d pick out books about law and justice, sit next to the insomniac inspector, and follow their routine once again.

 _Childish!_ Javert barked the first time he was read to, Valjean not hesitating for a second and only sent him a smile that quickly shut the inspector up. It almost always worked. Despite the fact Javert vowed to arrest him at one point, that he’d find his way back to the Seine the second he was free, there were moments when his civil personality shone through. Even to the point of jokes. He would snort, cite about the fact that perhaps Valjean had abducted him, asking if he should write to the police force. Valjean made sure that the man had freedom, always, but could not help but chuckle along to Javert’s bizarre humour- it drove him to the point of gripping his belly from his laughter. They chatted about every aspect of life: the fortunate, the less so, mercy and death. And they held so many of the same opinions, Valjean delighted at the sight of a new person to talk to. Valjean named friends swiftly, but Javert debated it for months, wondering if he deserved the kindness in the first place. And to Valjean’s surprise, Javert had a particular and favorite topic: flowers.

Valjean bought a bouquet for the first time, bringing it home to his housemate excitedly. Javert ran his fingers over each petal, eyes wide with curiosity and regarded the colors as if for the first time, and asked- so softly, as if the flowers would wilt if he spoke too loud- what Valjean’s favorite flowers were. 

So, the second the inspector was able to walk again, with an awkward gait and a cane, he bought Valjean’s favorite seeds and got to planting. He didn’t know how to thank anyone, never learned, and never had the chance to learn- he didn’t even know why he was doing it. Perhaps, he simply wanted to see the man smile, laugh, eyes crinkle at the edges like the times Javert’s dry humor surfaced. His face burned with an odd anxiety as he patted the seeds into the dirt, Valjean humming beside him, oblivious of the fresh conflict in the inspector’s heart.

They spent their evenings in each other’s company, Valjean’s hand on the other’s chest to measure the shuddering breaths, Javert’s hand tucked neatly next to his housemate’s leg. The Seine had done more than a number on Javert, breaking bones and nurturing a fluctuating suicidal ideation. His lungs and mind were waterlogged, his words succumbing to violent coughs at all hours of the day, but soon, the hypothermia and pneumonia dispersed, but a particular ache never subsided. But Javert- like everything he personally dealt with, brushed it off.

But there was one sinful feeling that refused to leave. Valjean was a thief- a criminal, a convict, for God’s sake, the scars were still there! Did the man still think of him as a guard? As an inspector who did not let him close tired eyes? Javert so desperately wish he did not care, did not lean into the other’s touch, didn’t feel that same stab of guilt when faced with scars, whip marks, brands across Valjean’s chest. _A thief, let him be nothing more than a thief,_ Javert had prayed- but he knew. Oh God, he had the deftness of a _master_ thief when he stole Javert’s heart, and Javert had been more than willing to let him in.

The daughter of Valjean visited once, nervously stepping around the authoritarian, but it was quite clear that Javert was in no state to arrest anyone- even though he continued to promise himself that someday he’d arrest the convict. He desperately tried to imitate Valjean’s fatherlike presence, only to end with Valjean smiling into his napkin over dinner. Javert felt like a spirit examining human behavior- something out of his division, but the other acted as if the inspector was a work of art. _You are a sight to see when you smile,_ the former mayor had said, bursting into laughter before remarking happily on Javert’s red face. _I do adore your company!_

And then suddenly, their lives, and roles, reversed. 

It began with one particular conversation, the discussion of politics turning into Valjean sobbing into the inspector’s shoulder. He was so intent on disappearing from Cosette’s life, leaving her with a boy named Marius, because he was nothing more than an _old man,_ and _good-for-nothing._ That he should die, and _good riddance!_ Javert physically jumped at the ridiculous idea! Valjean was a great father from what he had seen- but that single sentence didn’t fix things. So Javert did something that he protected solely for the other: he learned to understand, despite the horror at the idea he was ridiculously vulnerable. But even with Javert’s anxiety after weeks without Valjean’s usual smiles- the former mayor avoided meals, slept as much as Javert after the Seine, didn’t bother to visit the garden to see the rare flowers that bloomed in the winter- he began to truly die.

A new feeling arose in Javert’s chest, something that wasn’t wholly venom, bordering on something he had little use for prior. He practiced with the new emotion, testing and pushing to the limits, figuring that it was nothing more than pity- it could not be further from pity. So, Javert busied himself with pacing outside of his housemate’s quarters, fretting at the door- until, finally, he gained what could only be called courage, and forced the unforgiving door open.

It took a series of conversations, Javert’s voice rising more hysterically than he cared to admit, sitting on the bed with a stubborn Valjean, and the man smiled as if nothing was wrong. And Javert managed to relax after Valjean promised he’d eat and go outside, and it wasn’t the last time they had intimate talks under the midnight hour. Javert wanted endlessly for Valjean to believe in himself- the man could not be swayed easily, however, and Javert was admittedly terrible at getting his emotional points across. So, Valjean held true to his promise, but not without the occasional talk about their- Javert shuddered at the word- _feelings._ But for Valjean, he didn’t mind. A flaw in his morals. Each word spoken was damningly tender.  
  


“Good morning!” Valjean greeted, bringing a plate over to the table before ushering the inspector out of his makeshift bed. No matter Valjean’s protests, Javert slept on the couch, and there he remained. “How was your night?”

Javert let out a hiss, letting Valjean win and sat down at the table, a meal that Valjean had made in less than an hour. He scowled- how could the man be so angelic? Indulgence, far too much of it- he brought his coffee to his lips. Already sweetened provided by his love of sugar. Sinful indulgence- he glanced towards Valjean’s plate, paused, and placed another piece of toast upon it. No, _this_ wasn’t indulgence- the man needed his calories after all. Yes, Valjean may have been broad shouldered and physically fit, but he didn’t eat nearly enough for comfort! Some time ago in the midst of true depression, Valjean had explained that he wasn’t worthy of such nourishment- bah! A fool.

It was the law of the house that they often broke- Valjean loved to cook and Javert loved to garden. Amusing how it worked- the inspector provided food for preparations to a convict. And ever since Javert began sleeping without hating every moment of it, Javert grew to love sleeping as well when he had the time. Thankfully, he had a brief moment on every Sunday to sleep in an extra hour or two, but always made it up by staying up until the birds chirped the following eve. He did enjoy hearing the birds, however. He kept a mental list of the traitorous things he loved.

One of the first elements: Relaxation. He continued to work with the police force, and with his new perspective, was more swallowed in his labor than ever. Valjean hated it with a blistering passion. He didn’t hate the fact that Javert brought a new justice to Paris, a new bliss to the city- no, he hated the fact that Javert didn’t have time to rest. Often, Valjean would not see the inspector for an entire day, showing up mysteriously at his desk by the time Valjean awoke. Leisure seemed to elude the man! It took an entire three months to convince the man to take one day a week for himself! And even then, Javert settled himself with paperwork, and of course, Valjean despised this too. So, he would finally hoist the bewildered man up in his arms, set him onto the sofa, and guard the man until sleep finally anchored him in. 

The two of them had their crusades with the world of rest. Insomnia, night terrors and waking up with a scream lodged in their throat. Valjean had them constantly, at least four times a week- shame grew in his housemate’s mind. Toulon? He almost didn’t want to know, terrified that the man’s night was spotted with whips and blood and- his stomach tightened. So, Javert grew out of the hesitation to comfort the other. He would sit beside the bed, his simple presence doing wonders to the other’s mental health. And of course, Valjean tugged on his sleeve to join him in bed, and how on earth could he say no? For he knew, he knew all too well, that he wished every day to touch the man once more. They’d start awkward- with their backs touching- but always, Valjean would nestle himself firmly into the other’s arms- both were on the verge of weeping, desperate for the physicality, for the intimacy they craved, but it wasn’t enough. Both wishing the lazy touches were _anything_ more than platonic _._

Javert did not often sleep: he was far too busy to need it. But even in the moment when exhaustion was pulling at his every limb, grasping and lulling him into a suspicious calm, Valjean snuggled and snoring softly beside him, Javert was awake. But, no, not because of his constant labors. Because of the ridiculous way the moon fell upon the ridiculous man’s face, he looked at peace, all lines of his face calm and seemed so content, happy. Javert shook his head, face hot, every single time. Nonsense.

“I slept,” he said, which was his standard, content response. He kicked himself under the table, and drained the red out of his face: he had to leave his dreamland at one point or another. “And you? How are you?”

“I’m quite well!” Valjean exclaimed, Javert noticing the excitement in the other’s words, and smiled into his mug. Always a blessing. “And we must take advantage of your freedom today- I do love Sundays- so, I am going to trim your beard today.”

“Good God. Says who?”

“Says the man holding the blade, as well as the towel, and I have the washroom set up, so, dear inspector. You are getting a shave!” Valjean grinned, and while his smiles came often, the genuine ones were superior, turned his knees weak. Javert snorted in amusement, an unfamiliar ache in his chest.

  
  


“Perhaps we could visit the alms today.”

The two of them lapsed into their daily routine, fit perfectly around each other’s company and it came to be even quicker than expected. They’d wake up, often tangled in each other’s arms- far too much of a lingering touch that was a dagger to Javert’s chest. After breakfast was served, they lapsed into their separate but overlapped schedules. Javert would fill out paperwork if he could not be active in the streets and tend to the garden, Valjean would sketch on the porch- occasionally checking on the other with a loving grin. And of course- the evenings were for chatting- or at least, when Valjean could get something out of the other that wasn’t an overworked grumble. 

And Valjean discovered a softened spot in Javert’s heart in the midst of their conversations, that provided the first chance he got, but never had the chance nor reputation to. Javert was laughably awkward at the idea of donation, but Valjean harbored a pride like no other. Soon, protesting didn’t arrive when they visited the alms, and they’d return to their home with their pockets empty and a pleased, unspoken aura resting on Javert’s shoulders for hours after.

“We shall, then! We may have to go later, you have quite the set of whiskers, my friend.”

“Bah. That makes two of us,” the inspector said, the usual edge out of his voice, a burning in his chest that would make sense- his pains had been growing worse ever since starting to garden with the other. Old age, it seemed. “Your beard has grown unruly- I cannot believe you cited something about _my_ hair.”

Valjean snorted, tilting the other’s chin up as he moved the blade carefully along the other’s jawline. An exercise of trust. They connected gaze for a moment, the corners of Valjean’s eyes crinkling with a smile. “You truly think so? I was-“

And at that note, Javert lurched over, a cough pushing itself out of his throat, and the blade sliced through his skin.

He doubled over in pain, coughs wracking themselves free as he took in vicious gasps- a violent pain wasn’t simply discomfort from being old, this was more- no man coughed like this! Fear gripped him by the throat, hurrying through every possible solution as he hugged his middle, dangerous pressure rising in his breast. Tears blazed in his eyes as he stared at the ground through the blurry mess, the figure with stark white hair exclaiming in panic. The worst pain had only been active for a week! He must have been poisoned, who had been suspicious? Some sort of advanced illness, a mastery of a poisoning, he was sure of it-

He glanced up, Valjean standing right next to him, holding a cloth to his bloody face. A terrible habit it was- any face injury Javert received made him cry like a child, and Valjean’s concerned face was more than enough to send him over the edge.

“Javert- are you alright?” The aging mayor’s voice finally reached his ears, who, on instinct, helped him up without pulling his hands away, and the hacking only got worse. “Let me get you something- here, how about-“

Valjean pressed a cold linen to Javert’s forehead, the other heaving in pain but the coughs began to subside- and on that note, Javert thought a _thank you_ to whoever was listening. He could feel the panic: the way Valjean’s trembling hands couldn’t hold the towel still, the vibrations of the other’s urgent voice that usually held such kindness, and his free hand on his shaking back- oh, how Javert hated how much pleasure he received from such a thing. 

Everything Valjean did gave Javert far, _far_ too much happiness, a way no one had given to him, and Javert didn’t understand. He hated the solemn sound of uncertainty, but Valjean made him so calm and comfortable and feel so content in such anlife- with each touch and glance and word, Valjean pulled him into feelings that, yes, he didn’t understand, but he cherished them. A feeling that signified: _Yes, I would follow you across France, across the sea and to the sun and to the stars if you asked. And I would be ever so happy to do so._

“Deep breaths, now,” Valjean comforted, helping him up and ushering him into the bedroom. They fit around each other too perfectly. Something would go wrong, Javert was sure, but the feelings gave him the same sensation of caffeine. Jumpy and energetic, anxious even, and then there was a layer of calm. His heart beat slowed in the evening hours, the reassuring gaze of the other could lull him in any situation. Of course, the emotion sparked its own horrors, but he was sure: as long as he kept these feelings to himself, nothing terrible could happen. But since when had the privately adored feelings from Valjean turned sickening?

“I’m not a child,” he spat, wiping at his watering eyes, not a hint of malice in his tone. Why was he so rude? Could he even be considered as a friend? He did not deserve the beauty that of such a man- he debated daily if he deserved such a life. 

“Of course you’re not- you are quite too tall for any child to be.” 

Javert managed a tired chuckle, unsure if he could actually laugh until he met the other man- listen to him! He sounded like a lovesick fool. His mouth dried- _love_. He pushed this word to the side. The respect many had held for him was long gone, dripped down the drain and forever unforgivable, but oddly enough, he did not care. He glanced towards Valjean, another cough rising, and immediately: tears climbed his throat, but he swallowed even as the other sat him down and hurried off to get a glass of water.

The pain in his chest remained, throbbing and made each shuddering breath sound as if it was coming from deep underground- and quickly a new series of coughs overtook him, blood and its metallic taste coating his throat. But something stuck on his tongue, thick and soft, but covered with blood nonetheless-

A flower.

He pulled the object out from between his lips, terror hitting him- a single sprig of lavender, red intertwined with each violet flower, the usually sweet smell nauseating: going right to his head. _What?_ No, this couldn’t happen, it wasn’t possible! It was impossible- there is no way he- the footsteps of Valjean wandered back into the room, shoved the herb under the blankets, and thankfully swallowed the water. It was a single sprig, must’ve been a mistake. Valjean regarded him with an incredibly tender glance, that only caused another cough to climb his throat- there was little time to dwell on anything going on. He feared it- feared being so vulnerable but Valjean didn’t say anything against it.

Valjean hated seeing his housemate so miserable- and with the curious addition to most of Javert’s emotional or physical pain, for an inspector, he cried quite a bit. Nothing wrong with the reliever of course, it was a welcome coping mechanism rather than worse ones. But it broke the old mayor’s heart each time, to see him position himself at an angle where tears wouldn’t threaten to spill, and he wanted nothing more than to gather the other up in his arms, a natural solution, but both were too afraid of what the other would think.

 _But thankfully,_ thought Valjean, _this seems like a simple cough. I’ll get some medicine when in the city if it worsens._ He smiled, satisfied that Javert’s eyes had dried and his fingers had stopped shaking, and in one swift movement, he tossed the inspector over his shoulder.

“I can walk!” Javert snarled, almost unfazed by the constant carryings. The action had begun when he had truly been unable to get out of bed without help from his- er, friend perhaps. Why was the title not fulfilling enough? He didn’t have time to dwell on it, terror was crawling up his neck. “You carry me as if I am a sack of potatoes!”

“You weigh less- and potatoes already weigh so little! Perhaps while I’m away I shall get more meals for us…”

“While you’re away? Are you leaving?”

“Oh!” Valjean exclaimed, blushing as if he had been caught lighting candles for prayer. He set the inspector by the couch, examining his new clotted wound. And as for Javert, he was suddenly _far_ too aware of the softness of the mayor’s skin on his own, and his heart rate accelerated without hesitation. And the pain in his chest began again, more brutally- each beat a crackling flame in his ears. His world was ablaze.

Valjean continued, unnoticing the other’s sudden pallor. “I’ve been invited to Cosette and Marius’ home in the countryside- to the sunflower patches! I’m bringing home flowers, foods, I must apologise since I felt alright after considering the desertion of my daughter! Good thing I had you by my side.”

Javert swallowed, pressing a fist to his lips. “Bah. Seeing you in such pain proved my claim. You’re a great father.”

The smallest words made Valjean’s heart swell with pride, both of the man Javert had become, and the fact that he himself had changed as well. He grinned. Javert was a man of few words, and even fewer expressed emotions, but the nights they spent inadvertently tangled up in each other’s arms expressed far more. And of course, there was no more of an amusing hobby than flustering his housemate.

Javert couldn’t stand another moment of kind gaze from the other, and quickly, he went on with a cough. 

“Ahem- when do you leave?”

“Oh, of course!” Valjean smiled, and Javert’s heart gave a painful convulsion. “I was planning to leave tonight, get time in with dear Cosette. However- are you well? Those were some particularly severe coughs you had- perhaps I could stay-“

“Incredulous!” Javert barked, turning away to hide his burning urge to cough, as well as a flush of comfort. He waited for a thrust of jealousy, envy of Valjean and his family, but none came. Instead, he felt a rush of excitement for the other man and the prospect of seeing his dear daughter. He knew how important children were from the fact that Valjean had been neck deep in depression over the girl, and if this gave him comfort: Javert could be nothing but supportive. “You must go.”

“I do hope dear inspector isn’t willing me away,” Valjean teased lightly, “have I been that bad of a friend?”

 _Friend._ Javert coughed, wiping his lips and pulling up a nonchalant façade to distract that another sprig of lavender had been produced. His stomach churned. He couldn’t do it. Valjean would say otherwise, if he knew. Would Valjean throw him to the streets if he were to explain his feelings? Perhaps laugh uncomfortably, and leave within the hour, ask for him to depart? It was the only home he ever had. Quite a makeshift one at that- but a home, he supposed. Did he have permission to call it as such? He couldn't ask that, of course. Insane to believe that it was the same mind that thought, every day, ever-present urge to close the gap between their lips. Javert knew the other’s lips were soft: the man’s skin looked far too gentle. But to close their breathing and the entirety of the universe between them, could it be done? Again, he could never ask. Because saying the words brought it into reality and made everything far too true.

“Of course not, you’ve been nothing but, er, kind- suspiciously so at times-“ Valjean let out a delighted laugh, clapping his hands- “and you need to see her. I won’t let your thoughts turn you bedridden again. I will not have it.” 

Valjean leaned against the sofa and into Javert’s shoulder. The burning spread to his side- Valjean had always been so traitorously affectionate. “Thank you, my friend. While you’d never admit it- you’re far too stubborn- but you are a wonderful man.”

At once, Javert fell into another series of coughs. Valjean didn’t hesitate this time- he put his head against the other’s forehead, tutting softly before putting an arm around him in order to stay steady. It was his goal: repay the ever-growing debt he had for the inspector. And while Javert would have raised an eyebrow at the idea, he had done far more for Valjean than he’d ever know.

“Are you alright?” He asked helplessly, Javert doubling over in pain as he wheezed, tears gathering in his eyes. “Javert?”

In the angry midst of hacking, Javert nodded. With his head almost on his knees, he tore bundles of flowers and lavender from his throat, swallowing them back down, as he pulled away from the other’s grasp. Each blossom risked death. Had the sprig of lavender only been the beginning? He wasn’t sure what hurt more: the lack of touch or the burning in his throat! It was a ridiculous idea! 

He excused himself, rushing to the washroom and forced Valjean’s concerned expression out of his mind. He coughed up new flowers, the second time in an hour as his mind spun in hope to land on a lucky assumption. 

_It had to be a joke,_ Javert thought, _it had to be! A poisoning? It must have been. Could I have swallowed some sort of petals when gardening? When did I bring flowers close to my lips, however? It could have been from the fall, seeds lodged in my throat with the perfectly damp temperatures- it could have happened!_ Panic grabbed at his chest and trapped him staring at his foggy reflection- his eyes filled with water, every inch of him desperate to escape this new ache- it had to be temporary! There couldn’t be remaining flowers in him- shouldn’t have been any in the first place! _I am fine,_ he assured himself, _utterly and perfectly fine._

“Javert? Are you alright in there? I brought some water.”

The rapping on the door shot him out of his nightmarish rêverie. He wanted to explain, he wanted to keep quiet, he wanted to confess every thought sodden with unfamiliar feelings and even more terrifying thoughts, he wanted to shut his mouth and never speak again! He didn’t know what he wanted- ridiculous bouts of illness kicked him like no other. He wasn’t in control- he never had been.

“Yes, one moment.”

He got the words out of his lips as he scrubbed at his face, his hair unkempt and jaw decorated with trimmed whiskers and a thick bandage. He looked put together enough to pass as sane: a true miracle. His stomach churned, panic gnawing at him. Valjean wouldn't hesitate to open the door, he knew that. The first time Valjean had taken his eye off Javert- a week after the attempt- he had gotten ahold of a kitchen knife. What any man could assume followed, and Valjean caught him and carried him back to bed. The oddest part about it: Valjean wasn't angry. Only a sort of sadness that was heavy enough to keep Javert away from any more blades.

He inhaled, exhaled. He could do it. Well, perhaps not. But that had not stopped him before.

"Are you alright, my friend?" Valjean asked once he emerged, giving him a one-over with a hand on his shoulder. 

_No. I’m confused and terrified and want to kiss you. Very badly. And all the time. Perhaps that’s why I am so afraid._

"Yes, yes thank you. I must have inhaled something," he said, taking another deep breath before allowing Valjean to lead him. “I must have. Nothing of concern.”

“I could make you some chamomile tea!” Valjean offered cheerfully, opening the door. “Our garden is looking beautiful- oh! I know you do like ginger tea, I planted extra but it will be a few months- hm. I’ve always trusted plants that blossom, still- ginger is the exception. Summer crops are personally my favorite, and even autumn gives the best crops, but spring yields the flowers, it’s funny how that works. You would think- oh, I’m babbling, aren’t I?” An amused giggle from the man at his own habit to go off on tangents. Javert’s cheeks were hot; he loved hearing the rambling from his housemate. “Spring is almost here!”

Together, they had grown an array of flowers and vegetables, Valjean introducing the inspector to fruits he hadn’t known existed, let alone the fact that he could successfully grow something. He had never killed the blooms, Valjean always figured out a way to bring them back from the cusp of death. Javert’s heart thundered. He brought everything back from death- whether they wanted to live or not.

The cool breeze whipped across their sanctuary, Valjean letting out a bright laugh at the insanity that was the other’s long hair. Again: the idea hit him. _I want to kiss you,_ Javert thought miserably, frowning as he stepped into their fenced area, _but_ _I preferred the time when I could think such things and not throw up foliage. Whatever this is, it is truly sickening._

The moments where they happened to both be tending to the garden were blessed. While their schedules were comfortably busy, the garden was their shared place. Emotionally, Javert supposed. Physically, they were never more than a few feet from the other, it was a small home and Valjean was always there for comfort and support. And of course, Javert always was more than ready to return the favor. But the moments that they _could_ share were always honored.

He kneeled down in the dirt, Valjean digging a hole beside him with his hands. _Like a rabbit,_ Javert mused to himself. The aging hands of the former mayor kept a rough feeling, but the emotion Valjean held with each touch was more than enough to make them soft. Javert silently studied the wrinkles around the other’s eyes, from smiling so much, from basking in a heaven. His wrists were imprinted from the years of prison- a dagger to Javert’s chest, another ache besides the forsaken flowers- and he knew the back of the ex-convict looked the same. Had the man lived his life in heaven or hell? A specific desire he had: to kiss along each scar until the imprints weren’t there, to convince himself he hadn’t caused every moment of suffering. Had he ordered the pain? Had he not thought twice? Perhaps kisses could heal some sort of hidden pain of the man. He flinched. When had he started such suggestive thoughts? Oh, _oh,_ it had to be months ago they began. Just like the ache in his chest, easy to brush off, but fatal in an instant.

And yes. Javert was sure of it: Valjean was handsome. Ridiculously attractive even, easy to look at with features that reminded one of a comfortably warm evening spent at home. The way a husband fetched logs for a fire that illuminated the room, pressing a gentle kiss upon his wife’s head, a child toddling at their feet: it was bliss. Spoken, cited and noted by so many, reached by few. But this appearance only hit the surface: unfair to Valjean to not mention his mannerisms too. The beauty reached deep, deep below the surface. And Javert, on the other hand, was ugly. He knew this, accepted it, and truthfully didn’t care. Sharp corners and vicious angles touched his face to make him constantly look as if he were having the worst day of his life. Deep lines across his forehead, void of anything that showed human nature: a block of ice. Even internally, he was no better. Cutting words and constant doubt- even his name had an issue! Javert: his only title. Perhaps a first, perhaps a last name, he did not know. But Valjean- he bristled, his face a deep red. Did all saints look as he?

“Javert? Do I have something on my face?”

He had been caught admiring.

“No. I- er- just distracted. I’m alright.” His face burned- staring at the other’s bright hair that looked like a halo in the sunlight. A saint. His hands- covered in dirt at the moment- had been the point of far too many childish and romantic thoughts, far too many. “Hush. I’m fine.”

Valjean grinned, standing up and brushing off his hands. “Your face is red. A fever perhaps?” He held a smile that suggested otherwise. Javert had been caught- quite obviously too, he should’ve been- he didn’t know what he should’ve been doing! 

Again, Valjean pressed his hand to Javert’s forehead. “Oh Javert- you definitely have an illness! Absolutely, you do. Come, let’s go in. Let’s lay you down, I’ll stay for the next few days. I don’t want your pneumonia returning-“

“No, no, you incorrigible man,” he said, the two of them exchanging a glance that assured there was not a hint of malice behind the words. “You must go! She is your daughter, she is expecting you.”

“But you’re ill and-“

 _I need you okay._ The words caught on his tongue. _I want you to stay._

“No need to worry,” Javert mused, suppressing a cough. He could feel petals suffocating him- each colorful bud a knife. Why had it come so suddenly? The ache had been caught in his chest for ages now, why was it then that it decided to surface? The time alone had to help- he didn’t want the other to see him so helpless. What good was he then? Valjean insisted that he wasn’t overstaying his welcome, that it was a pleasure to have someone around, but Javert doubted it. “Come- do you need help packing your bags?”

Valjean frowned. 

That wasn’t good.

“You have everything? Clothes, sketchbook, a few francs?” 

Valjean smiled sadly, nodding. They had been sorting through his case for the past few hours, switching between packing and Valjean rushing to aid the ill man. He seemed to be getting worse- holding every symptom of pneumonia, he must have been out too late again! Their evening strolls were lovely- they should have been more careful with Javert’s fragile state. Valjean chewed on his lips, examining Javert’s long fingers, scarred from years of work. Oh, how he wished he could hold those hands- how he wished. A silly thought, but laced with reason. The man was magnificent.

“You promise you’ll see a doctor if you feel worse? Your coughing sounds awful, I’ll pick up some medicine in the city, are you alright? Please don’t hesitate to write if you need me to come home-“

“Hush.” Javert snorted, long hair pulled back. Valjean always loved seeing his face- his strange smile that grew to be the highlight of his days, the odd, sharp angles and laughs. No matter how bizarre to outsiders, Valjean could not help it. “ _I’m_ fine and _you_ have a carriage waiting. Remember: you are going to have fun and see your daughter, and I’m truly fine. Most likely a one-day ailment, alright?”

Valjean sighed, itching at his hands. Each cough that his housemate let out grew more painful than the last, and each time he would brush it off and excuse himself to the washroom. Valjean searched the other’s gaze for a hint of pain, but Javert held such a gentle, stoic aura, so different from months ago. Everything about him had changed so drastically, but of course, he retained the parts that made him, him. But this illness didn’t look good, weariness gripping the other along with each sigh he let out.

“Ah... Alright. You promise that you’ll see a doctor? Please.” 

Javert paused, and nodded.

“I’m going to miss you,” Valjean said, pulling Javert into a tight embrace. It was the first time in months that they’d be separated, the words were unbelievably true. He nuzzled into the inspector’s neck, their skin pressed together and Valjean smiled. 

The skin over Javert’s stomach had filled, finally gaining a bit comfort and so opposed to the emptiness that had been there before. His ribs were only apparent if he was shirtless and laying down, but his hips had been entirely submerged in cushion. He was a tall man, multiple inches to the point where the former mayor had to stand on the edge of his feet to have them at the same height. Of course, he didn’t mind. Javert fit perfectly in his arms- no issue in that! Valjean would lay his hand on the other’s chest, stomach or neck, monitoring the heartbeat. A confirmation: they both made it. Both were still there.

He pulled away from the other, Javert’s face red. Valjean grinned. Whether it was from heat or truly him being flustered, it was always wonderful to see. 

“How dare, er, I shall…” Javert cleared his throat, averting his eyes. “I shall wave you off.”

_I want to kiss you._

His throat burned in pain, flames crawling up his chest with such intensity, _don’t cough. He shall stay if you make another noise- ah, would that be so bad?_ He could hear his heartbeat thundering in his ears, furious tears threatened to spill. Furious at himself for being so weak when it came to goodbyes. When had he cried so often? He stayed stark still for so many years, and now, at the smallest hint of kindness, he wept.

He helped Valjean out to the carriage, doing his best to remain silent and not pour out every forsaken feeling right there. Instead, he stared at the other’s broad shoulders to keep his head, at least somewhat. 

“Goodbye, my friend,” Valjean said sadly, as if he would miss the other- Javert found it hard to believe, but nonetheless, the corners of his mouth quirked up. “I’ll be back Sunday, and if I find that you worked this entire week, I am going to lock you inside.” A laugh. “Take care of yourself, swear by it?”

“Ah, I swear. Goodbye- I- I’ll keep an eye on the garden. Have fun, don’t you dare come back early, you old fool.”

They exchanged a grin. 

The carriage pulled away, Valjean sticking a hand out in a wave, and Javert smiled. 

The sky deepened in color, the purples mourning the departed man, the oranges warning of the days past and blue warning of the days yet to come. His vision black at the edges. But Javert had never been one for sunsets- so he turned and stepped inside. That damning, stupid smile was the only thing he could see for miles and miles.

He snorted humorlessly, shook his head, and collapsed.


	2. Chapter 2

_“You are awake.”_

_Javert woke to a voice that was not human. A terrible mix of distorted speech with every accent imaginable, each word enunciated as if practiced for days on end, and yet, the voice was familiar._

_He looked up._

_“This isn’t our home. Where am I?” Javert asked hurriedly, panic hitting him like a wall. The bricks surrounding him were streaked with blue, chains laced along the edges, and it was his mind. He recognized it too well- dreams near hallucinations had plagued him since his early years- oh God, don’t let his bastard mind touch his memory of- he made eye contact, fears confirmed. Valjean. The man was entirely himself: stark white hair, a dazzling smile, but there was not a thing behind his eyes. The one thing about Valjean he always could recognize. “You are not him. You don’t sound nor look like him. Where am I?”_

_“You wished for him to come back,” the man- no, not Valjean. This wasn’t the man he adored far too intensely. “Why does a part of you want him to find you like this, there’s a part inside of you that wants him to stay with you forever. That part is pitiful.”_

_His words were laced with poison and Javert clambered to his hands and knees, and pulled himself off the floor. The room seemed to get infinitely taller, but each word out of the aging mayor’s lips was like a dagger in a corpse. He should have been terrified! Should’ve been clawing his way out, but everything was clogged, cotton in his ears, each step watery._

_“I’m dreaming,” Javert concluded, not a hint of calm given from this. He knew all along that he was- it did not make it any less horrific._

_“Yes. You’ve always been too aware of your dreams,” the man mused, taking a sip of wine. “You even dream about him. What do you dream of doing, ah, with him?”_

_“Who are you?” Javert snarled, gaining a hint of reality. He was going to get out of here. “Wake me up. I demand it.”_

_“You can do that all on your own, dear inspector.” The man examined his hands with a dull look in his eyes. “You’ve never thought up a form like this before- no, wait. You’ve spoken to this man, to me, before. You do not know how to love him.”_

_That one hit. It had always been a terrible, horrible weak spot. He didn’t understand, didn’t understand the rambling emotions of human kind, didn’t understand when anyone felt bad unless explained in complete clarity. It took an entire night of thought to figure out why Valjean was so attached to the child, and of course, why he was so attached to the man who was dangling over a river. He never figured the latter out. But he was determined to help._

_“Perhaps he pities you,” the man suggested in tune with his thoughts, a disgusting bark of a laugh that sounded too much like his own. “There were poems written about prisoners and their officers- a bond that few understand. You- I see- took it to a new place. You’re in love with him.”_

_He waited for his own voice to rise to the air, challenging the statement, his tongue heavy. Emptiness was all that his mouth held. The lack of anything and the presence of nothing. Because the horrible, Valjean double, was correct. Javert closed his eyes. He had known those words to be true for weeks, and weeks and even before the flowers had begun-_

_“You forgot about them? The ache in your chest isn’t there anymore, is it?”_

_“I’m dreaming. Of course it isn’t.”_

_The man tutted, and threw his drink to the side, which landed perfectly on the floor with a clink. A wave of nausea hit Javert, and he stumbled, letting out a gasp. Dreaming, he was only dreaming! None of it was real, he assured himself, gripping his chest, and the only thing he could think of was that the bastard was using Valjean’s body as a vessel. On instinct, he reached for his gun, a baton, anything, he had to protect the image of the man. The depths of his own mind weren’t allowed to reach it._

_“You’re in love with him, it hurts you, doesn’t it? What does it feel like? Was it like how you imagined?” The man asked, leaning towards him with every bit of his housemate. But his eyes held nothing. “This is what people do, Javert.”_

_“You speak as if you know me. You don’t.”_

_The man grinned devilishly, clapping his hands. “I’m you. Don’t you see? Are you too blind to understand insecurities, and oh my dear, you have quite a few. With your inability to understand love, inability to know how to comfort and you offend everyone you meet. You speak with power that you don’t hold, and you don’t want to admit that you are human like everyone else. It’s what people do.”_

_“Stop it!” Javert hissed, his hand on his chest that nursed a growing burn. Each word, the fact that that wasn’t even a tenth of his insecurities, crackled like hellfire in his ears. “You’re a figment of my imagination. You talk as if you’re real, it’s ridiculous. Wake me up.”_

_“You long for him far too much. Far too hard. He’s killing you, Javert.”_

_“He- what?”_

_“The flowers. Haven’t you figured it out? Remember that old myth you picked up- one of your first books read in the conscious mind? If you’re too deep in feelings that could never be returned- let alone by him- you will die.”_

_No. No, no, it was impossible. A myth. A myth the man had called it, they are called myths for a reason, no, he couldn’t have whatever ridiculous flower illness the other was referencing. He wanted to go home. Wanted to see the real Valjean. How high had his fever been? Perhaps he was hallucinating- he touched his own forehead, desperately trying to imitate the warmth of his friend._

_“He’s not your friend. He’s pitying you.”_

_“He told me he wasn’t,” Javert said, gripping onto a small amount of confidence he had left. He wouldn’t let this beast that his own mind created tell him otherwise._

_“You’re believing his lies again,” the devil said, studying his own arms and hands. “You know every physical inch of him, you imagine him perfectly.”_

_“You are not him!” Javert barked, gripping his own head in pain. The world was melting away, the blue substance on the walls dripping into puddles, a lone candle was only a pool of wax. He was on fire. “You could never be him. This is a dream, and I refuse to let you tarnish my idea of him.”_

_“Listen to you! You’re helpless! You’re nothing but a child, my dear.” The devil sighed, and Javert hated how the nickname accelerated his heart. He hated how he wanted the title- hated the fact he even wanted in the first place. “Your garden is beginning to wilt.”_

_A window that had not been beside him before, appeared. He stumbled towards it to reveal a sight: the garden. The field of flowers stood before him, the normal but nowhere near comforting view, especially with the circumstances. There stood the devil who had taken the shape of a man he adored- dare he say loved- and it was all too familiar._

_“You cannot tell yet. The flowers are wilting, and so are you. Valjean doesn’t understand you- you’ve taken advantage of the man’s kindness. He couldn’t bear to get you out of the house.”_

_“He- He said that he doesn’t mind,” Javert snarled, but his memory of the other was already beginning to stain. Had Valjean really said that? Had Javert simply not noticed, blind with feelings that couldn’t be returned? “Let me out.”_

_“I’ll tell you again,” the distorted man said. “This is what people do. They make friends, they fall in love, they become angry and then they die. And you are the only one who doesn’t understand.”_

_“Stop-“_

_At once, the man began to melt. His fingers that he had known so well began to disperse, heat climbing his chest and he let out an agonized scream, clawing at his face, pain lighting up the entirety of his skin. He was going to die if he didn’t get out- he had to get out! Oh God, he wanted to go home, he wanted to see the real Valjean again, please! Months ago he would have allowed himself to stay, to never wake up, but for once in his miserable mind, he had to at least die in his home. His limbs were heavier than ever, and the man across from him was a puddle- and he began to collapse on himself, sobbing angrily because he didn’t understand and if this was a dream then why couldn't he go home-_

Javert woke with a shout.

Reality came rushing back at him, relief flooding his senses as he let out a sigh of relaxation he had never felt before, and then he realized: he was spread out over the floor. He reached for Valjean, but his hand only gripped air. He sat up, his gaze swinging from side to side, a pang of disappointment and then guilt for the previous feeling: he had wished that he’d wake up in bed, Valjean snoozing beside him as usual, and none of this complexity happened. 

Oh, _oh._ He was alone. 

Ache. The one word that described the loneliness that hit him. His shoulders shook as he pulled himself off the floor, and realized that blood stuck to his shirt, his hand instinctively reaching towards his mouth. His lips were covered in blood, petals sticky on his neck and on the floor where he had once laid. He ran his fingers over his scarred and rough skin- an unwelcome familiarity, but a familiarity nonetheless. He was alive. He let out a breath. He was back home. Good.

Those miserable dreams had started long long ago, and Javert rarely dwelled on the past- but he had always been far too aware of the depths that came to light during rest. He’d talk, fight and be held by various imaginary figures- whichever his mind decided he needed most, his father, his mother, the few men on his staff that he regarded as coworkers and slightly more, hardly a friend, perhaps. Valjean had appeared before. Javert shifted uncomfortably. He did not want to remember that dream. 

He pulled a bucket out from the hall room, filling it with water before stripping and cleaning himself of blood. It was an activity he rarely did on his own- his upper half, at least- Valjean had grown accustomed to cleaning the man off at least once every few days when he was bed ridden, and doing it by himself gave another vicious hit of loneliness. A week. And that was it. He enjoyed the silence, but he was far more comfortable in the other’s presence- it was horrifying how that worked.

And oddly enough, a smile tugged at his lips as a memory floated to the surface. He had been making himself decent- running a comb through his graying hair- when his housemate had settled himself on a stool across the room. He didn’t know why whatsoever, but he made his way across the room, and ran the comb through the man’s white hair. Valjean practically jumped at the contact, but then hummed dreamily and leaned his bulk against Javert’s narrow figure. His eyes fluttered shut, murmuring some tune from the square holding terror-struck memories, but was settled serenely in youth. Peaceful. Shoulders slumped, whatever barricade between the two dropping with ease. Each touch was unbelievably delicate, Javert taking meticulous care as he ran the comb through the curls with something like awe. Neither had experienced anything like it before- something like bliss.

Immediately, at the damn thought of his housemate, he doubled over, letting out a harsh wheeze. He hadn’t had any water in an hour?- A day?- his throat only moistened by blood. Flowers fell into the empty bucket as he hissed, his long hair uncomfortable and sticking to his blood covered hands. Covered in vines and each color of a rainbow he had never seen, the bucket was almost filled with his blood covered foliage- a wave of nausea overcoming him.

A myth. What had the man said? _One of your first books read in the conscious mind-_ was that right? He despised the fact that he had to listen to the terrors of his own mind that took human shape, but the pain in his chest was getting ever desperate. He stood, carrying the bucket of greenery in his hands, forcing down the terror of the situation, and walked to Valjean’s vast bookshelf. 

He ran his fingers over the spines, savoring the grounding feeling of the fact that, yes, he was real, and Valjean would be home soon, things had to improve then. _No!_ He hissed to himself, _I cannot get any more dependent on the man. This is good- this provides me a chance to live on my own. I will be leaving soon, anyway._ The thought burned, but knew that the devil from his brain was right, he _was_ overstaying his welcome, and he’d find a house any day now.

 _Myths & Legends from Romania. _He scowled as he reached for it. Valjean bought it soon after Javert’s mental state had improved, and Javert didn’t have the heart to tell the other that he had no interest in his family or culture. He did not associate with the country that had abandoned him, but reading would yield answers to this situation. He’d be back to normal in no time at all, he was sure of it.

The book fell open to the correct page. He shuddered. How odd.

The story was simple: A man falls for a woman who does not return the affection. A constant tale as old as light itself. He develops an illness, coughing up the lady’s favorite blooms and brings each to her door- Javert scowled. They must have been riddled with blood. The woman is disgusted at the act, and turns her back on the man completely, and soon every breath produces a flower, and the man dies. His grave is surrounded by flowers, and while his gravestone crumbles away, the flowers always remain.

“That’s it?” Javert hissed, flipping through the next pages and then the ones before. There was not a single word spoken otherwise about the illness, as if it hadn’t been written, as if it didn’t exist-

Oh. That was it. The disease did not exist.

Immediately, Javert stood. No- no. It couldn’t have just been a myth, a silly tale between children, it couldn’t have been! He was ill with it, he was certain of it! He coughed painfully, right on cue, and a sprig of rosemary was produced- he saw it! It was real! He pressed his knuckles into his eyes, desperately pushing away the incoming migraine. It was real.

That stupid, stupid dream and the stupid devil man and his stupid words! Perhaps it was real- perhaps in another book- he raided the shelf without hesitation. Flipped through every damned book on botanicals and medicine and even psychology- he wished Valjean and his stupid smile could’ve been there! Tears sprang in his eyes as he coughed, his throat burning- he warranted every bit of this pain, but why, why was he left without a solution?

He shoved his fists in his pockets and kicked the front door open. Because apparently, his housemate had brainwashed him into doing healthy things to deal with his anger- and one of these absurd things was taking a walk.

Ah. It was dark outside.

The surprise gave him a temporary relief- he must have been asleep only a few hours. He exhaled. At least, he was able to benefit from that- the experience made him pick up his feet that were previously dragging across the gravel as he got himself into town. He could be back on the streets at his proper time, a brief walk, nothing more. That ought to rouse him, he could finish his documents and be to his station by six. Of course, it wasn’t too safe at this time, but he had his gun securely fastened to the inside of his jacket for emergencies and years of training. He’d be alright, he would be safe. Valjean was always intent on that.

He scoffed. He couldn’t get the man out of his head, every illusion of their hands brushing and Valjean happily lacing his arm with the other’s- why had he pulled away so often? He should have stayed longer, more frequent. He could count the times on his hands that he accepted the arm on his own, oh, why was he such a fool? The act never deterred the cheerful demeanour, and instead, Valjean kept a hand on Javert’s shoulder to keep him and his wounded leg steady. Javert missed him, the thought alone-

“Monsieur?”

He jumped, his hand gripping to his cane as if it’d offer some sort of protection, but he sighed in relief. Nothing but the paperboy.

“What are you doing at this time of night?” Javert asked, raising an eyebrow. “You’re a child.”

The little boy scowled, and Javert felt a pang of anguish hit him square in the chest. The boy reminded him so fondly of a child of the Revolution, a grand little soul. Javert took off his hat: an act of respect.

“What can I do for you, monsieur?” The boy asked, studying the show of honor with his clipped words that made Javert’s mind ache with grief. “Anything?”

He took a moment to consider, regarding the boy.

“Yes. I do have something.” He kneeled down, reaching in his pocket and tugged out a twenty franc coin. A gold Napoleon. He pressed the currency into the boy’s hand and the boy let out a loud exclaim, a foul word popular with the young folk, no less. A smile tugged at the corner of his lips. “I- erm. Hm. A question for you. Have you seen any of your family, anyone in the alleyways, with- er- flowers?”

The boy was still marvelling over the shiny coin, now in his hand. “Of course! Let me show you! She’s my sister’s boyfriend’s mom- come ‘ere, I’ll bring you.”

The chubby hand grabbed at his own, and led Javert across the street, the inspector tilted at an awkward angle to keep up with the youth. He felt a hit of relief- it was real. He knew it. The despair disappeared, but at the sight of the lad, he coughed into his handkerchief. He wondered silently if Valjean would’ve ever consider taking in a boy like the one holding onto him with determination. Cosette was a grown lady now- would Valjean do it over again?

“Here, monsieur.”

A woman sat huddling over a bundle of blankets stole him from his thoughts, tucked into the corner of a street way, and shrank into herself even further. The boy took a step back, and Javert waved him off, after handing him another few francs, of course.

“Hello, monsieur,” the woman rasped, her voice painful as if each word were an effort. “What do you need?”

She put a hand on the collar of her chemise, and Javert looked away. “No, no, not that.” He tried to keep his voice calm, even, but the hysteria threatened to pour over the surface. He needed to know if it was real. “Flowers. You- the boy led me to you, because you’ve been ill with-“

“Flowers,” she finished softly. She unwrapped the bundle, and out poured a pile of flowers, of every shape and of every size, far more advanced than anything he had coughed out. He wanted to help- he didn’t know how. He didn’t even know how to help himself- good God! He had to help her. “Monsieur, I don’t understand.”

He cleared his throat into his handkerchief, but each cough never seemed to satisfy the ever-burning pain in his mouth. Out came a daisy, which he quickly cleared of blood, to keep the other’s mind somewhat clean as if she hadn’t seen worse terrors. He held it in his fingers, and showed it to the woman.

“Oh!” She exclaimed, tears pricking in her eyes as she leaned towards Javert, placing her calloused hands on either side of his face. “You poor man!”

He waited for the hit of disgust from the unexpected touch, but none came. Her hands held a similar roughness of his departed friend, the softness coming out in the words, instead. He held his linen to his mouth, coughing into it before wiping his lips, and the only thing he wanted to do was cry. Helpless. Everything reminded him of Valjean, and it truly was killing him.

“You poor, poor man,” the woman whispered. How long had she been battling it? How long did she have left? “When did this begin?”

“It- I don’t know,” he admitted pathetically, attempting to keep his shoulders straight. “The flowers began on Sunday, I believe, however, my chest has been sore for months, but I had never coughed up _foliage_ during that period. I- I believe I passed out Sunday eve, and today is Monday-“ he grimaced. “A day ago.”

“Oh, monsieur, today is Tuesday. Oh, you must have passed out for an entire day- have you eaten anything? You must drink! Blackouts are what the Americans have called it, oh, you must have such a bad case if you began to cough so suddenly- see how big the petal is?”

He nodded painfully. An entire day. He had collapsed for an entire day- suddenly, everything was thrown off its balance. _What?_ Was he losing his mind? How had time slipped by so quickly? He had spent an entire day being spoken to by a figment of his imagination that flirted with the darkest parts of his mind- time wasted for his love to tell him things that he refused to accept. He had missed his post! A string of curses flowed through his head, curse this and his entire being! He needed to write immediately, send word that he would surely be there within the next hours. Oh, how pitiful! What a fool he was.

“How long have you been ill?” He asked, examining the bloody blooms.

“Weeks, perhaps. Time gets blurry. Every moment seems to be a pain.” She blinked at him with doe-like eyes, shaking her head. “Times are hard, monsieur. There is not much to do. My love has gone overseas, he is in a war- I do not know which.”

“Do you have a house? Someone you could possibly lodge with?”

“I cannot. I remain hopeful, monsieur. I cannot die in a puddle of longing.” She shook her head again, mustering an incredible amount of strength to offer him a smile.

Javert stared up at the stars, considering. He did not understand love, he knew this. Nobody had ever felt appreciated by his awkward shows of affection- how could they?- until Valjean. He mimicked as Valjean comforted, offered guidance and simply acted as Javert was the most extraordinary person who ever had existed. _No_ , Javert thought, _Valjean was wrong. It has never been me, but Valjean was, yes, truly, extraordinary._

They had watched the stars one night. Javert had hesitantly pointed towards the guardians patrolling the dark, Valjean staring in awe as if it was the first time he had noticed them. _Beautiful,_ Valjean murmured, eyes wide at the flares in the sky, crinkled at the edges in a smile, and Javert had nodded. He hadn’t been looking at the stars. No, because suddenly, he didn’t care about the ridiculous balls of light that watched the two men from their steps, sitting in something like heaven, no. He almost wept as he watched the man grin with awe, putting his scarred hand up to watch the gleaming between each finger. Had he been so obsessed with order that he had not seen the magnificence of chaos? _Yes,_ Javert had agreed, eyes not moving off the man, _beautiful._

And in an instant, Javert hoisted the woman off the ground, took off his coat and slung it around her shoulders. “We are going to the hospital.”

“Monsieur-“

“I will pay for the fees- you are dying and this is no place for such, I will see to it that your children are fetched and clothed. Come. Not a moment to waste.”

The woman began to wail. Her hollow face turned blotchy and red, illuminated by the moonlight as she pulled the coat infinitely closer- it had to be the most expensive thing she owned. Javert was terribly uncomfortable, awkward that he was going to ruin _something_ , and terrified of the familiar parallel. So long ago, a similar woman with a different story had been carried off to the hospital by Valjean- who went by another title- and Javert had ruined her as well. 

The woman gasped with thanks and prayers as two sisters of the church helped her into the hospital bed, Javert making a mental note to support the flimsy building that seemed to be collapsing, but it was far more homely and safe than the streets. He slipped multiple Napoleons into her hands, fetching her an extra blanket before grabbing one of the sisters. 

“See to it that this woman is comfortable- fetch her family.” The sister nodded as Javert spoke. “I shall pay for any extra expenses that they may need.”

Oh, what was he doing? He didn’t understand any bit of it- so long ago this was a buried adoration of his and now he did it freely? Had Valjean taken such a toll on him? He should have been proud with himself, he helped someone and had gotten information- but his mind sat like a brick. He was incredibly pleased he was able to help the unfortunate woman, and the little boy- they deserved safe lives. But no matter what, the ache in his chest thundered, a clock ticking towards- er, towards what? No! Would he die? Good God, he hadn’t thought of that- no, he was sure that he had quite a bit of time left, he didn’t need to think about that. God, Valjean pulled him out of the dark that he was so determined to stay in, and he should’ve been infinitely grateful, but what if everything had been an act of pity, as the dream had told?

He did not want to listen to the depths of his mind- however there were moments where they made sense. Moments where he could better himself, understand the truth by listening. Everything pointed to the fact that it was true- what had those little things been? Each lingering touch, each time he bought a book or flower or new blanket, it was pity. And that was it. There was nothing more.

He walked home swallowed in his own mind, flowers trailing mournfully behind him.


	3. Chapter 3

_“I have to say: I did not expect you back so soon.”_

_Javert inhaled, exhaled. “I need answers.”_

_The room had appeared again, the second Javert had sat back down on his couch and closed his eyes. He hoped desperately that he would miss no more work, he could be to his station, ready to explain everything within the hours. But the sight had been waiting for him- brick walls beginning to be more comforting than being stuck in his own mind. He had gotten the information he needed- if his feelings were not returned, he would die. His stomach sank endlessly, he was sinking endlessly into an abyss- he spent every resting moment wishing he were home, and every waking moment wishing he were asleep._

_He could function without Valjean, but that did not mean he felt better alone. Something childish but true: Being with Valjean made him a better person. He hoped his housemate was eating properly and enjoying his time- was it selfish to want him to return? To feel him by Javert’s side again? He longed for the mornings where he could wake up, Valjean snoozing peacefully beside him, head resting in his arms, and of course, hands intertwined. He longed for more._

_To pull himself out of being truly dependent for so long had been a task- but he could survive on his own. The river always called to him in the dead of night, and he would slip out of bed, before Valjean promptly tackled him. Valjean fed him, bathed him and watched him for almost a month straight. It had been difficult to pull himself out of it. But soon enough, their days spent together were separate- schedules overlapped but with their own lives, and there wasn’t anything wrong with being more comfortable when the other was there, right? He enjoyed his time more when he was with the other. That had to be acceptable._

_“You’re a ghost examining human behavior,” the devil mused, staring at Javert straight in the eyes. “A spirit given the gift of life, and you don’t even put in effort to understand others.”_

_“I’m working on it,” he said helplessly, the words stinging. “Today-“_

_“You helped a woman. A little boy as well. Funded the hospital. Yet you still do not understand human compassion, you do not bother to learn. You only know to mimic. Why do you think Valjean pities you so?”_

_Javert shook his head. It was another ridiculous dream. He wanted to go back home, to fall asleep had been a terrible idea, and his hand immediately went to his arm. He could pinch himself awake- only a few days without sleep. He could do it- and of course, once his housemate returned, things would liven. He wondered fondly how the other was doing- he was determined to be sure that Valjean would never be in so much pain again._

_The devil sighed, snorting in amusement. “You think about him even now. You need to let him go. He does not love you in return, he cannot. The feelings you have for him are not love.”_

_“No. They are, I’m sure of it,” Javert said, gesturing towards his chest. This was ridiculous, why had he come? “The pain is more than real. I will be waking up now.”_

_The man grumbled, blowing a puff of smoke from the cigar that Javert had not noticed. Javert couldn’t help but dwell on the terror spoken from this perfect print of Valjean- but of course, it was a figment. Not real. “It is helpless love. Love is not true unless there’s a chance it can be returned- you are drawn to him because you cannot have him. You do not want to take a risk.”_

_The demon continued, “Remember your mother? Remember how we used to play- but your memory was too painful. It killed the love you had so swiftly, you convinced yourself that she was an evil, brutal woman, you could not wait to forget her.”_

_“Stop it,” Javert let out a strangled cry with a voice that did not sound like his own. His emotions had been running from side to side of the same pendulum- hitting the wall with every swing. He had always been like that- a pendulum that only swung one way- and Valjean sent the pendulum swinging back. “She abandoned me- I did what I had to do.”_

_“You told yourself that she hated you- oh, how she adored you, but the pain was too great, you were too young. Poor boy,” he said, his voice distorting violently towards the woman's from earlier. “You poor man.”_

_“I’m going to wake up now.”_

_He clenched his fists, squeezed his eyes shut, but something kept his feet firmly planted in the dreamworld._

_“You are practically begging to stay. You are terrified of getting hurt again, and you want to stay. A pathetic amount.”_

_Javert did not speak._

_“Your garden is faltering, my dear,” the figure said, holding an unnatural amount of grace as he stood, taking a step towards the appearing window. He hated the convulsion in his chest at the affectionate nickname. “It is getting worse every day.”_

_He peered outside, biting his nails into his arms. The flowers retained their normal beauty that hit him with a pang of longing- but the tips of the leaves had begun to rot._

_“I want to wake up now,” he repeated, stronger this time, staring the man in the eyes. He couldn’t call the demon by the name of his friend- friend. The word tasted odd on his tongue. It had never done that before._

_The figure scowled, the entire dream beginning to melt away as the last time- and the burning in his chest began again. It was a flash of lightning- gone one moment and there the next, and his entire body exploded with pain- oh, the dream was always the perfect break from the constant coughing and bleeding and everything in between. He bit back a wail. He had to hold on, get out of the wretched place- he wanted to go home._

He woke with a start.

Immediately, his mind began to reel. What day was it? Last time he had his feet in that devilish chamber, he had slept for an entire day- the dream he had just been forced through was long, if anything, longer than the first one. He put his hands on the sides of his head, a headache ringing in his ears. It was the Seine all over again. He made a note to himself to write an apology to his chief, but he knew the man had been prodding at the inspector to take time off. No matter how greatly it plagued him, he would take today to himself. He groaned aloud.

Why had he gone back? Even the deepest parts of his mind refused to admit that seeing the demonic man gave him a seed of comfort, the fact that even a vision of his housemate gave him hope. He pulled a blanket around his shoulders, before padding to the window, peering out at the night sky. He scowled. With his luck, it made sense.

He scrubbed at his bloody lips, touching his throat before pulling away with a wince. His entire body pulsed with soreness- and his mind immediately slipped to Valjean’s bed. The soft mattress he had spent so many nights in sparked an old memory: Screeching as Valjean wrangled him into bed, and the convict wordlessly sat beside him, and held his hand until they both slept. Valjean had always been there- Javert had nothing to offer in return. Tears gathered in his eyes.

He coughed, a terrible wound in his neck reopening and the raw flowers scraping against his dry throat without hesitation. He grabbed the bucket he had filled with his bloody greenery, tossed the pansies into the pile, and despite the fact that they were goddamn flowers, he couldn’t pick the bucket up! His arms felt infinitely heavy, he couldn’t hold a thing, let alone a bucket.

He inhaled, willing tears not to come. He dumped the flowers into the rubbish bin, which quickly filled up, and staggered out the door.

And he found himself back at the Seine.

The roaring waters called up at him, stolen lives and crashing waves beneath his feet- he hadn’t realized that his feet were even on a solid surface. He swallowed. It was much harder than it looked. His stomach dropped as if he were missing every step on a flight of stairs- it reminded him of so long ago, his broken leg made him sit at the bottom of the steps after failed attempts to walk, and weep. Valjean, of course, would find him within moments, drape a blanket around his shoulders, and carry him off to bed, despite the protests.

The wind bit at his skin, and he overturned the bucket, open end into the Seine. Petals fluttered down. It solved his problem, simple and with only the slightest of motions- and he didn’t dare to consider even lingering his eyes on the waves, wonder what could have been, or even let himself be swallowed again. He couldn’t bear to think what would happen if he did- he squeezed his eyes shut. Not again. He didn’t want those thoughts again.

It had been a long, long time since he believed Valjean wouldn’t be heartbroken over the inspector’s death. He had watched Valjean sit and cry over a _bird_ that flew into their window. He cradled the colorful animal in his hands, his shoulders shaking as Javert sat next to him, examining the display of emotion with his odd attempt at sympathy. All he knew was the fact that Valjean was in pain, he hoped that his awkward words had provided at least minimal comfort.

Javert awkwardly took the other’s rough hand in his own, spoke a prayer for the corpse that he had heard at the services he accompanied Valjean to, and took off his hat. And Valjean had immediately squeezed his hand in return, mumbling something damningly tender about the inspector under his breath, and Javert even purchased a small ceramic bird that he left wordlessly in the garden. Valjean, of course, bombarded him with affection at the sight of it.

He hated the fact that he had pulled away, and even more, the fact that Valjean requested nothing in return.

After a miserable attempt at keeping himself alive- he drank some water and scraped together a meal, having never cooked anything in his life- he sat at the table, staring at the flickering candle. It was moments like these- he could not sleep, he could not be awake. He did not feel real. It was as if he were watching himself from afar, bouts of whatever this feeling was often, but illness seemed to pull it in even harder. His case of pneumonia had made him drift away from himself for hours at a time- much to Valjean’s distress. A pause between horrendous words. A waiting room between heaven and hell.

He sighed, shaking his head. He didn’t know what to do- he didn’t understand. One of the many flaws in his genes, what on earth were _feelings,_ anyway? Stupid, unneeded things, he decided, such petty devices invented purely to torment the population. Why on earth was he even up at this hour? Oh, _right._ Because every time he slipped unconscious, he dreamt about a man wearing another man as a suit! He glared at his hands, rubbing his temples. Reality was far too difficult when ill. 

The first months after the Seine had been brutal, and he relied on Valjean for anything- he couldn’t keep himself alive, and his housemate was more than ready to take care of him. A true, fatherlike instinct of his. Soon enough, they lapsed into their lives, but happily collided together in the oddest of ways- but down he went again. Valjean couldn’t have been willing to do it all again, nobody would want to do something like that again. Perhaps it all truly _was_ pity. Nothing more.

The dreamworld wasn’t all bad, he supposed. He did not deserve- nor understand- the gift of life that he had been given. He did not comprehend the sights he had seen, and that small area from the depths of his mind were far safer than each bloody breath. Perhaps the Seine meant something after all. Perhaps, he did not want to be alive.

So, he pinched the flame out with his fingers, ignored the burn- he had felt worse- and fell back asleep.

  
  
 _By the time he woke, or- ah, perhaps slept, he was perfectly content. He felt no pain in his mind, chest, throat; he was at peace. His bulk was settled in a chair, soft, the air warm and sun shining gently through the window. And, the Valjean his mind created was before him. And he stayed._ _He did not hesitate as he let himself sink into the chair, the burning in his chest gone. He peered out the window, conveniently beside him: leaves scattered the ground, brown tinging the edges of the petals. He was so tired._

_He had not been happy, in so long. Valjean made him happy, though- did he? His memories were blurry, ink spilled upon maps. His hands were stained, his own blood looked so dark in the moonlight, void of color, but when he slipped into his mind, his hands were clean, soft. They had never been like that before. Had he ever felt happiness? Had Valjean made him happy? Did he make Valjean happy?_

_”Javert, dear, you are slipping away again.”_

_“Oh,” he said hastily, adjusting himself. “I’m here.”_

_The devil sighed, smiled.  
_

_”Yes, you are.”_

Days fell by, and Javert became worse.

He spent more time asleep than awake, the drawn out arguments with a figment of his imagination- the physical image of Valjean, gave him a sliver of comfort that he needed so desperately. Anything for relief from the violent burning in his chest. He had never been _this_ deprived- never been so pathetic and neck deep in desire- but physical illness destroyed him more than anything. Weak. He’d disappear into himself, unable to get out of bed, awake and asleep at all moments. Valjean had always assured him there was nothing wrong with this, didn’t treat it as something that should be cured, but Javert had been like that since childhood.

He had never been held as a boy. For years on end, he pushed away the vicious need- his skin crawling in disgust- he could genuinely _feel_ his skin become cold and clammy, pulling his jacket tighter around him gave him the most relief that he had. So when Valjean came along and insisted on constant physical touch, terror washed over him. And again, that one desperate feeling he continually clawed for, appeared in his reach again. So he pushed it away. Far too good to be true.

And when the even more terrifying feelings appeared, pushing him to become closer, to open up like never before, he only pushed them away. He turned himself inside out- and pushed everything deeper, deeper, until flowers bloomed at each word that left his tongue. Dips and rises of the letters, buds growing each time he signed his name, the dive of _J_ and swells of the new way he crossed his _t,_ because of Valjean. He studied the countless doodles and emotional ramblings of his housemate with wonder like never before, and it grew on him. No, _no,_ it _bloomed_ across his skin until he could look himself in the mirror, until he could touch the dirt in the garden and bouquets bloomed at the simple pressure, until they bloomed on his tongue and every word that left his lips. And it began to kill him. 

Everything that he had built, hands on hands as he steadily stacked progress and understanding and _everything_ he never had, until vines grew in the cracks of his insecurities, flowers and leaves curling in disgust. So desperately, he tried. He tried to push the bricks back into their formations despite the fact that decay was eroding everything he touched- nightshade and oleanders and belladonnas killed everything like a weed, and it was killing him. The only thing he could produce was poison. His efforts had been for _nothing._

He could not handle it. He wanted to be alive- he knew there was good out there- but perhaps _he_ was the problem. _Did_ he want to be alive? He was so sure that life had realized that he did not deserve the gift of breathing- and took it away with such confidence. And so, he dreamt.

Hiding in the corners of his mind and lacing his fingers with the hands’ that he needed- he couldn’t be hurt if he didn’t open his eyes. He was sure of it. The burning in his chest pulsed at every single second, getting worse by each unbearable day. He could exist in peace, well, it was peace in comparison to his true existence. 

He knew Valjean’s life would continue, but Javert longed for the idea that he could have been a part of it. A fairytale. Perhaps, it was nothing but a fairytale. Javert was a fool. But perhaps, he had hoped, that they would’ve grown to be old fools together. Nothing more than a childish dream.

And in that moment- Javert was fast asleep, the stars twinkling solemnly above him. 

And Valjean came home.


	4. Chapter 4

The former mayor stepped quietly inside the shack that seemed to be pulsing around the man resting on the couch, the garden holding an odd energy that warned with its every cell. Valjean put his bags down, suppressing an urge to call out- it didn’t take long to notice the inspector sprawled across the sofa that some time ago, insisted that he’d never even use it.

He grinned, excitedly tapping his foot against the floor, debating to wake the man or not. He was surprised- the sun was in the middle of the sky, and Javert was still asleep. _Must have been a rough night_ , Valjean thought fondly, slipping off his shoes and coat, before padding over to the inspector. And of course, delighted at the idea that the man was getting rest, taking time off even. He needed both. They both were aware of their shared insomnia, from anxiety and an entire desperation to not sleep and relive memories buried deep. Valjean decided to let the other sleep- they had all the time in the world to chat, and Valjean had more than a few surprises for the inspector.

Oh, _oh,_ Cosette had been wonderful. Marius had been nothing but kind, a little childish, as expected- and both treated him with a love that was different to what he had received in the past. To see both of them happy, his daughter healthy, Marius completely recovered from the crusade through the sewers. Cosette hung around him at most hours, asking about Javert and Marius snickering under his breath- but Valjean understood why, and laughed easily with him. Oh, how he missed them. _He’s in love!_ Cosette had exclaimed, clapping her hands as she shook her laughing husband’s shoulders. _I never believed I’d see the day where he’d be lovesick!_

Marius was more curious than anything, asking _How on earth does that work?_ Valjean had blushed, shrugged, _We’ll figure it out, I’m sure._ Marius grinned, going on about two of his old friends that Valjean scarcely remembered from the barricade: a passionate leader and man who, oddly enough, did not believe in the cause, but he believed in their leader. A similar relationship, apparently. He was incredibly pleased to see that their relationship was going well, even trying for children! He didn’t stop grinning all the while he was there. Valjean had held his laughing daughter with such a love, his heart more than full- grandchildren! Oh, how Javert would love to meet them. 

Thrilled with something that could only be described as human nature, Cosette gave him a ring. A simple but beautiful golden thing- who knew where or why the family had purchased it- and Javert was the first person he thought of. _No, no, thank you, my dear, we are hardly affectionate in the way you and Marius are! And as far as I know, my feelings are one-sided, at best!_ Cosette giggled, shaking her head and insisted otherwise. _Papa, did you see how hard he tried to make sure you were comfortable? When I visited before winter began, he worked so hard to impress you and comfort you- he fetched you blankets without being asked! He smiled at you, many times! And while it sounds silly, the man never smiles, Papa- you must consider it. Inspectors don’t smile, especially Javert, but he did at you. I’m sure that he absolutely adores you!_

Valjean’s face had reddened at the thoughts, a giddy laugh lodging itself free from his throat. _You truly believe so? Well, perhaps, Javert will be met with a rude awakening when I return._ Cosette squealed, Marius whistling, every word laced with childlike wonder and pride rose in his chest. He had done well. With everything he lacked in the father-daughter relationship, Cosette had bloomed into a perfect woman. Oh, he couldn’t wait to bring Javert with him the next time he visited- he twisted the brass ring in his fingers- perhaps together as something more.

He did his best to stay silent on their creaky floor, but the inspector was deep in dreamland, it seemed. Valjean smiled, and pressed a light kiss to the top of Javert’s head, only to jerk away in panic. 

Javert had to have a fever, he _had_ to! It had gotten worse, much, much worse, it was like touching a piece of iron that had been sitting in the sun- he had to find a doctor! Immediately, he put his hands under Javert’s arms, and hoisted him into his arms, one hand on his back and the other supporting his legs. Javert didn’t wake, only curled into Valjean’s neck with a violent shiver. Valjean swore.

Javert seemed infinitely lighter, as if he hadn’t eaten a thing in days, his skin hot to the touch, lips red. No- not red, a distorted, tinted purple. As if they were blue but stained red, each time they parted released a ragged breath. His eyes were moving rapidly, but remained closed and only produced an odd sort of twitch- but each terrible sign was like a dagger to Valjean’s chest. How- How did he get in contact with a doctor? He refused to leave Javert’s side, every time pneumatic symptoms appeared, Javert practically withered away- but Valjean didn’t feel an ounce of burden taking care of him, appreciating the time together but, oh God, how he wished it was in different circumstances.

He tucked Javert into his bed, stripping the inspector’s shirt off that was almost soaked through with sweat, along with red stains that Valjean desperately hoped were remnants from gardening- red flowers perhaps, rather than their brutal opposite. What had happened? Javert had had a small cough- that was it! The fact that the man hadn’t woken even after being carried throughout their house called for fear- what on earth had happened? Javert had been fully recovered from illness for months, he couldn’t have done this to himself. Valjean put a trembling hand on the other’s chest- heartbeat flitting and erratic- and immediately reached for the other’s hand, only for it to be snatched away as Javert’s eyes flew open.

Javert’s chest heaved as he swallowed air violently, scrubbing his mouth, gaze shot to every point in the room, and stared at Valjean as if he were a spirit.

“Javert-“

“Don’t touch me!” Javert barked, jerking his hand away as if burned, eyes wild with raw anger, on the verge of hysterics. “I cannot rid of you-“ he buried his face in his palms, voice shaking with rage- “what is wrong with me?”

“My friend, it’s me-“

”You lie!” 

Jerking away, he slammed the balls of his palms against his face, furious tears gathering in his eyes- and at once, Valjean stood and held Javert’s wrists away from hurting himself- and his hands opened, Javert began to weep. 

His entire body curled in on itself, shoulders shaking, pain gathering in his eyes and Valjean could see the willpower going into Javert’s desperation to hold back the tears, and he didn’t do what to do, oh God, he had to do _something,_ please- let him help. He had to help. Valjean put a knee on the bed, and pulled Javert into his arms- it was the only thing he could offer, and Javert looked as if he’d collapse, he couldn’t just do nothing!

So, he put his hand on the nape of Javert’s neck, and hugged him silently against his chest. His heart thundered, he was sure that it was echoing in the entire room, but Javert said nothing. He wished he could’ve said something, something that would fix whatever had happened and every awful moment Javert had gone through, but he couldn’t. He wanted to, he needed to, but he knew Javert. He knew that his dear friend preferred figuring things out alone, knew that the man was his best as he poured over his desk at an ungodly hour, and Valjean would assist without being asked. He did not need to be- and Javert constantly did the same for him. Sometimes the most simple of touches- just like this- were more than enough. 

It was the most oddly intimate situation- Valjean running his fingers through the other’s long hair, Javert sobbing- but he did not pull away. He needed to help- Valjean’s mind fluttered with anxiety, and Cosette’s ring in his pocket felt more significant than ever. And not for a moment did Valjean regret anything- Javert being alive was more than enough. 

“How can I help? Please, Javert, you’re not well. I’ll bring you to the hospital, and I’ll stay with you until you’re better- I’ll fetch a doctor! Yes, please get some sleep while I-“

“I can’t go back to sleep,” Javert spat, Valjean still shocked at the display of vulnerability. So unlike him- still, Valjean savored the moment, of course. “I can’t. You have to promise me something.”

“Of course,” Valjean said quickly, “anything.”

“You cannot let me close my eyes. You cannot.”

“Javert-“

“Please.”

It broke Valjean’s heart. Javert had an impressive talent of stitching back each wounded memory, placing each newly healed piece of love back into Valjean’s chest. And seeing Javert who had spent so many nights consoling him, and Valjean was well aware of the fact that Javert didn’t understand comfort- but the man did beautifully, regardless. He owed it to Javert, owed it to the bloodshot eyes looking up at him that have been ripped from grace, far too many times.

“Of course. Just for today, however, and I won’t leave your side- it’s going to be okay,” Valjean offered with a smile, pressing away an urge to kiss the other. That urge was always, _always_ there.

“Always too optimistic, as per usual,” Javert grumbled, settling back into the bed and Valjean breathed a sigh of fond relief. But it didn’t stamp out the anxiety about the situation- it was a flame only beginning. But in the meantime- Valjean smiled, and took a seat on the bed as Javert inspected himself with curiosity, as if confirming he was there. “Why… Where is my shirt?”

“You have a fever,” Valjean said matter of factly, grinning like a fool at the somewhat hysteric relief washing over him. “I’m not giving it back.”

A smirk made its way onto Javert’s face, despite the fact that it looked borderline painful as he made no move to cover himself. He seemed too tired to do such an act. Valjean wanted to climb into bed with the other, he wanted to do _something_ besides watch, he wanted to touch the other- there were moments where he was sure that Javert was dying for God’s sake- he wanted to make sure the other was safe. He _had_ to. He knew very well about Javert’s difficulties with physical illness- the man’s body was entirely skin and bone besides a small amount of cushion Valjean had proudly provided, and it ravaged him every time. Pneumonia had practically killed the man, and Valjean was more than determined to assist.

“Naturally, you’ve always been stubborn,” Javert said lightly, dark circles under his eyes. Valjean tossed the man a clean shirt which he put on slowly, staring thoughtfully at his movements. “Oh! How was your trip? Did you enjoy it?”

Valjean blushed.

Javert grinned, an odd, lopsided but absolutely wonderful thing. He raised an eyebrow, and Valjean prayed that he couldn’t tell that he had spent the entire week talking about him. But with how observant the inspector was, he was an _inspector,_ after all, he was sure that Javert could see right through him.

They chatted for almost an hour, Javert’s personality returning swiftly, and Valjean almost wept with relief. And to his delight: the man had taken almost an entire week out of his labors! Of course, Javert’s face blanched with panic when he realized, insisting madly that he had to get to work. Valjean’s brow furrowed, resting a hand on the man’s thigh and shook his head, the man needed rest, he was ill, of course Valjean would not let him escape. And of course, a worry to a point where he couldn’t explain the violently relieved feeling in his chest- he had thought that their friendship would lapse into something with awkward glances and the plain avoidance of the other- Javert had a tendency to shut down after being vulnerable, and Valjean would forever be concerned that Javert would shut him out and implode into himself. He knew it was a ridiculous thought, but he never wanted Javert to fall back into the illness that he had known months ago.

Javert gave a vague, general motion with his hand when probed about his own week, he was not prepared to admit that he had spent the first half of the week fighting his mind and the second half basking in it. But being treated so kindly, revived something bizarrely emotional within him. Javert was an independent man, this much was clear. He performed his duties alone, shut down conflicts involving him and even, he was used to waking up by himself, not even the sun having risen. Even after Valjean, Javert was still independent, harshly hidden when he chose to be, but suddenly, he was no longer alone. He still tended to his habits, secured a baton to his hip when out but the things that, long ago, were painful to do alone, suddenly were soft. He could not walk yet over the bridge built right over the Seine, and difficulties arose no matter what. But Valjean did not hesitate, and suddenly the pain was far less. He did not have to be alone, and when he wanted to, Valjean respected it, gave him as much space as he needed. Didn’t treat his difficulties with social situations as something he needed to recover from. He felt, oddly, peculiarly, comfortable. And suddenly, he didn’t.

Just as Valjean hit his second minute speaking straight, Javert gazing at him with something unreadable in his eyes, he began to pale. Comfort was gone in an instant. His skin turned an odd, nauseous color, his brow furrowed as if each breath was a pain.

“And I- Javert. Are you alright? May I feel your forehead?” Valjean said gently, but the other simply brushed him off with a strange movement and shook his head. 

“No, no, continue, go on,” Javert forced out, trying to push down the blooms sitting heavy in his throat. It was just short of a miracle that he hadn’t woken up coughing and with blood splattered across his lips, but it _was_ a miracle that Valjean had come home. As long as he didn’t fall back asleep, he would be alright. “I enjoy hearing of your travels,” he added bashfully, voice not quite normal. And listening to Valjean recount his week- which was wonderful, to Javert’s pleasure- was not something that he was willing to give up. “Let me- ahem- I’m going to use the washroom, continue on, I will be right there. I assure you I shall not die.”

Valjean watched as Javert inhaled, pulling himself out of bed. He shakily brought his feet over the floor, trying to breathe deeply- it was always far more painful then it seemed. He stumbled, slumping against the doorframe as exhaustion pulled him down- he had _just_ enough strength to not fall to the floor.

Immediately, his feet touched solid ground as Valjean hoisted him up from behind, gazing worriedly at the man. He snorted. “I assure you, my friend. I’m alright, and er- thank you.”

He did his best to give his housemate a calm look, but it came out as some crumpled copy of pain. He despised himself- each lie that left his lips was only another reassurance that he was an awful person, he knew it. How was he supposed to explain? He cleared his throat- which did nothing of the sort- and trudged towards the washroom. Every step felt as if he were pulling himself through deep mud, sweat beading at his brow from the simple effort- he was sure that Valjean could tell.

He clicked the door behind him, and promptly fell to his knees. Each goddamn breath sparked pure _agony-_ he put his fists on the side of his head- what had he done to deserve it? But no, _no,_ he knew of every single thing that he had done, to those innocent people and he had always been the wrongdoer and would forever be- was that what that pathetic effort of the other night was? Helping people, however, always too late? What would Valjean think? 

And oh God, _Valjean._ What was Javert doing? He pressed his hands against his mouth, muffling any sobs that managed to escape- what on _earth_ was he doing? He had glanced over the countless scars on Valjean’s back, an array of crisscross wounds from days passed, the firm indent over his wrists that would never fade- why hadn’t he been there? He could have said something, stopped _anything,_ he was the child of pity. Every gaze he met held such disgust, he was sure of it, how dare he complain of dreams that only showed the truth?

He succumbed into a series of violent coughs, ferocity pulling him to his knees and to the chamber pot, nothing coming up except for flowers of every shape, a single belladonna landing near his hand, and he only brushed it in along with the rest. Petals painted with blood and full blooms decorated with entire pieces of _skin,_ scabs that formed in his throat that could never be merciful. He did not deserve it.

He wanted to sleep. He wanted to see the distorted Valjean in his mind, the one that treated him with anything _but_ mercy, he knew what he deserved, goddamnit! The burning in his chest stopped, and he could breathe for once, but he couldn’t go back- he couldn’t. If he fell asleep again, his entire being would collapse. Flowers would grow in the bed and under his hands and hair, wildflowers would grow from his chest until vines snaked out of his lips- oh, how Valjean would cry. He couldn’t make him cry again- he had long passed the time he believed Valjean wouldn’t cry, the man cried over the smallest of creatures with all the love of a summer evening- his brilliant colors spread across the horizon without hesitation.

A bizarre thought fought its way to the front of his mind: He wanted to be held. A pathetic, primal desire from the depths of his mind, one of the most ridiculous sentiments that slipped through his mind. Sentiment: He did not understand- could not understand, but Valjean teased him for becoming a _sentimental old man, a wonderful thing_. No, _no,_ he wasn’t anything like that- poison slipped out of his fingertips and killed everything he touched- he couldn’t get any closer to anyone. He couldn’t hurt another soul.

Knuckles rapped on the door.

“Javert? I was thinking: I could fetch a doctor quite quickly, your cough is growing worse.” Valjean had fear dripping off every word, desperately trying to keep his tone steady and even. The coughing had grown far, far worse- it had to be a delayed bout of pneumonia, perhaps some sort of influenza? Inflammation in the lungs- he was sure! He couldn’t bear to hear his friend- more than that soon, hopefully- get any worse. “Javert?”

A cough.

“That… Hm. That would be fine. Do take your time, however, I am not in much pain.” Valjean was surprised at the other’s words, surprised at the fact that he had agreed. Resigned. The word flicked in and out of his thoughts. The perfect adjective to describe the inspector’s voice- resigned. Never a good sign. The man was as stubborn as a mule- one that Valjean was, quite, in love with. He grinned to himself despite the ridiculous situation for it felt lovely to think of it as a whole. 

The door pushed open, Javert looking more miserable than when he walked into the bathroom. Javert scowled, but somehow, a smile tugged at the edge of his lips. “What are you grinning about?”

“Ah,” Valjean hummed. “You.”

Valjean watched happily as the inspector’s face contorted into realization, confusion, terror, and at once, Javert reddened. It started at his fingertips, and Valjean could pinpoint the flush spreading up his body and into his face, and let out a delighted laugh, clapping his hands.

Valjean almost kissed him.

“Oh, my friend. I cannot believe the ladies are not lining up outside,” Valjean declared, beaming. Flustering his housemate was his favorite activity, something he had truly missed. Good to be home. “Your face seems quite red from your, ah, fever.”

Javert snarled, covering his mouth with his hand, eyes on the wall. Valjean could practically see the wheels turning in the man’s head, figuring out some sort of witty response, a stuttering and bashful thing that would only make him laugh harder. Javert had a similar quirk that never failed to make Valjean laugh, despite the non-traditional sense of humor the inspector had developed.

Before Javert could make a remark in return, Valjean continued. “Come, come, you’re going to get rest, I will fetch a doctor, and you will be back to normal in no time at all. I’m sure of it!”

Something mournful passed over Javert’s gaze that made Valjean hesitate. An exhaustion far more tired than anything he had ever seen- it reminded him of his time in prison. Two near-violet rings around his eyes only accented the look, his heart gave a vicious squeeze, and Valjean prepared to pick him up and bring him to a doctor himself. 

But Javert simply gave him a bizarre but endearing smirk. “Of course, of course. Always optimistic- I’m quite surprised you put up with me. I’ve been told I’m, hm, severe.”

“Impossible, my friend. I do adore your company and ah, what do they say? Opposites attract?”

Javert flushed again, his ears reddening as Valjean helped him back into bed. Valjean grinned. “Er-“ Javert started, hurriedly looking around- “I owe you a thank you. For everything, truly. I don’t believe I’ve said it enough in my time here.”

Valjean raised a concerned eyebrow. Now that, was another level of unnatural. “You say it as if you are leaving.”

“Er-“ Javert bristled, avoiding his stare. The noise of discomfort: Valjean spotted it quickly. “Of course not. And I do have to apologize for forcing you to deal with-“ he gestured to himself- “this.”

Valjean took the inspector’s hand, and offered a stern, exasperated grin. “You are not a bother. I indeed adore having you here- just because we don’t have the same ways of showing friendship, doesn’t say I don’t notice your efforts. While you’re quite stubborn, you must admit: you are a wonderful man.”

Javert pressed a hand to his face, and Valjean clapped in amusement as he stood. “I’ll fetch you a book to read while I retrieve a doctor. Oh, how about some gardening? Flowers! Ah, look, a volume we haven’t read-“ he chuckled- “always a surprise.”

“I _despise_ flowers.”

The words came sharp, vicious in all their nature with a force that hadn’t appeared in months. Valjean turned, taken aback by the disdain in his voice. That tone had never been used before, seemingly on the verge of hysterics, rage brimming in the man’s eyes. “Are you alright? Did something happen?”

“No, _no,_ I’m fine, just…” Javert trailed off. Something like shame clouded the man’s gaze, and Valjean felt a dagger nail into his chest. “Different book. Please.”

Valjean nodded, pulling out a book on Romanian myths, and handed it to Javert. He did his best to keep his voice steady, his first instinct was to climb into bed with the other, and coax him into relaxation, some sort of state that could be of use! Javert started at the book, turning it over in his lap as if it pained him to see it.

“I’m going to fetch a doctor now,” Valjean said, trying to be as gentle as possible to cover the steeping worry. His skin was the only thing keeping the brutal panic from exploding, what happened? Flowers, an allergy to flowers in the garden perhaps- what had happened? He forced his hand to his side, he couldn’t keep touching Javert so oddly, he didn’t want to worsen anything. “You’ll be alright? I know physical illness is quite terrible.”

“Don’t worry-“ some mocking version of a grin painted his face- “I’ll still be here when you return.”

A dark bit of Valjean’s mind doubted it.


	5. Chapter 5

_“I don’t want to be here.”_

_The devil scoffed. “How indecisive can you become?”_

_Javert scowled at the man, it was suddenly so clear of the differences of this- this imposter! He had begged, genuinely pleaded, for the demon to keep him in the painless dream world- painless, because Javert knew what he deserved. But oh God, real Valjean was so lovely, the man was so determined to support the ailing inspector in any way he could- he couldn’t just let him down! The man had spent an entire month beside him when illness ravished him, he couldn’t simply give up. He refused to, damn it! He wanted to live, right?_

_“Oh, dear inspector.” The devil put his hand under Javert’s chin, and suddenly, pain bloomed at the touch- he knew the feeling: it was killing him. Each flower that suffocated him in reality slipped out of the devil’s fingertips and into his skin. “How foolish can you be? You know how this is going to end.”_

_The words came out as a growl. Javert flinched. He wanted to go home._

_“Stop it,” Javert seethed, jerking his head away on instinct. He had done this far too many times. “Don’t touch me. Wake me up.”_

_“Why do you think you’re still here? You are keeping yourself in this dream. You’re so terrified of living, far too terrified of dying despite the fact you are on the brink of it, right now. Despite the fact you have wanted it so desperately. So you exist as nothing but a spirit. Unable to live, unable to die.”_

_“I want to go home!” His voice rose to a hysteric cry, sounding like a child denied comfort. The devil only scowled in return. “You are not real. You are keeping me here.”_

_“Impossible. Don’t you see, Javert? You made me up-“ the demon gestured to his copy of a body- “because you are well aware that you do not deserve the love given to you. Why do you hide? It will make you stronger! You will muster the courage to return to the river, or die here with me, escape Jean Valjean once and for all- isn’t that what you wished?”_

_“Stop it!” Javert barked, remembering his friend’s honey laced words. He was so sure- Valjean had to feel something, whether friendship, or- dare he think- something more? No man could lie so flawlessly._

_“He could,” the devil said, Javert’s thoughts no longer his own. “He is a convict! Do you not know the story? Have you learned nothing?”_

_He had learned. He had learned the ridiculous and rocky trail of love and hatred, memorised every step upon their overlapping roads- he could get lost so easily. His feelings were true, he was sure of it- he had never been sure of anything. His hands trembled at his side, and he had to wake up, if he could convince himself that, yes, it was worth it, he would live. No- would he? Would he live? Unless a miracle occurred and Valjean loved him in return, he would die._

_A violent shiver went up his spine. He would truly die._

_No, no. He had been to the Seine once before, to glimpse at death had been horrifying and equally comforting at the same time. To know that he was temporary. He hadn’t brought the justice to Paris he wanted yet, hadn’t learned how to converse with Cosette without making a terrible, dry joke, had not yet given the paperboy a pouch of gold Napoleons. He wanted to do so much, but it seemed just out of reach, fingertips brushing it before being pulled away again- would he even leave this dream? He needed to- he began to pace, unaware of the devil’s sudden snarl-_

_The devil grabbed him by the chin, broke him from his thoughts, and kissed him._

_A sudden brutal, vicious thing that was full of white hot pain pushed into Javert’s mind, forcing itself within the fields of his mind, his veins filling with blossoms and for a split second- as far as the eye could see: flowers. Rows and rows of bouquets and herbs and, oh, how Valjean would love it- and as if the man heard him, there he was. Standing in the middle of the field, wind in his hair, and his arms covered with bloody vines. Valjean turned toward Javert, and smiled. Nothing behind his eyes._

_  
_ _A scream jerked itself free from Javert’s throat. Blistering anguish seared through his skin, cutting through his lips and down his chest and wrapped through his ankles, his dream within a dream ripping at the seams as each stitch was pulled into oblivion- and suddenly his mouth was covered once again._

_He jerked away, finally getting hold of himself- the devil’s touch disappearing in an instant as if it had never been there in the first place. But the pain, oh God, the pain was unbearable! His entire body broke into shaking, doubling over and a sheen of sweat began to bead at his brow, his face turning a deathly pale._

_“You have to stay. You have seen what he will do to you. I gave you a single taste of the future pain- oh, how it hurt. Remember when she left you, my dear? Oh, your mother. Wasn’t she beautiful?”_

_“Stop it, stop it, goddamnit, stop it!” Javert hissed, shoving the spirit’s chest as if it changed anything. It was him. This devil in front of him, was the lurking man in his mind, ready to provide the terrible, twisted comfort._

_“He’s going to do the same to you. Valjean is going to leave, he's going to leave like everyone has, he only pities you. If he kept you- you would die. I’m saving you!”_

_Blazing hot tears blinded his vision as he grasped his chest- but his sobs weren’t his own. As if they came from the sky, the walls trembling as the voice pleaded distorted words that didn’t reach his ears. Valjean._ My dear _, Javert thought,_ I beg you, don’t cry.

 _“It’s not him! How hopeless can you be, you disgusting man?” The devil hissed, standing in front of Javert. The deepest depressions of his mind were slipping through the cracks, and this dreamland was crumbling. “Pity! That’s all it is! You cannot cry for a man you cannot_ _love properly- who does not love you!”_

_“I don’t want this!” Javert screamed, doubling over in pain as he gripped his chest, vines suffocating him- his infection spread from reality to reality and his skull would be a home to flowers once they took him down. “Stop it!”_

_“You foolish man!” The devil shouted back, and the figure that he had been for so long that always gave him began to deteriorate. Skin and bone and soul disappeared into the void until a fearsome figure was left in front of him- a true devil. “He will be the death of you! You’re killing yourself!”_

But I love him. _The words didn’t need to leave his throat._

_The devil put his hands on the sides of Javert’s face, his nose bleeding from the violent and violating kiss, and seemingly ripped through the skin. Pain blurred the lines between life and death, mercy and cruelty, and he began to scream. A bloodcurdling thing that seemed to cut through the dream and scratched the icy surface of reality-_

_“Your garden is dying, Javert!” The man shouted as the inspector sobbed, barely clicking in his mind. The wind picked up, flower petals overwhelming him._

_And Javert began to suffocate._

  
  


“Yes, monsieur,” Valjean said, the panic laced set of words coming foreign from his lips. “The inspector is in here.”

He stared blankly as the doctor evaluated the resting man, and the only words that could slip through his head: _I broke my promise._ He shook it off. They were both being silly- Javert needed rest, and Valjean surely wasn’t going to keep him awake! However he couldn’t help but gnaw on his bottom lip in terror, there had to be some sort of _reason_ Javert had pleaded such a claim- what if Valjean had done something? Anxious: the word always described him- but Javert lulled him into a calm like never before, oh God, how he wished he could go back to their teasing hours in the garden, waking up with Javert cuddled around him.

A barber walked in, and Valjean winced. Bloodletting. A ridiculous practice- it wasn’t what Javert- or anyone- needed to heal, a wound in the upper arm that apparently let out blood into a _basket_ , that pulled out toxins, apparently! Valjean sighed, itching at the indent of his handcuffs. They had been peaceful ever since he gained his friendship, another part of his family, no matter how much Javert protested, but ever since he returned to a bleak, ailing Javert, they had been flaming. He took a seat in the chair he had used for nights on end for reading, arguing, and love- and stared at the barber’s knife. 

“Monsieur, I doubt that you want to see this, for some patient’s families, it can be quite stressful,” the doctor said, taking a stool next to the inspector. He held his fingers to Javert’s pulse point, moving his fingers along the veins traveling up the arm, before gesturing to a spot that the barber leaned for. Valjean shut his eyes.

Javert began to cough.

His friend’s entire body began to tremble, gasping for breath and Valjean quickly stepped to the man to give comfort- but Javert didn’t wake up. His hands shook as he held back tears. It was ridiculous- he knew crying wouldn’t help anything, but he hated feeling so _helpless._ Valjean’s heart gave a violent squeeze, and while his mind flickered to the promise, a pang of guilt hit him square in the chest.

Javert let out a vicious heave, and suddenly a bloom of belladonnas decorated the white covers. 

Valjean stumbled.

A haze of cotton covered his ears, the restless ticking of his heart fuzzy in his ears. His vision twisted. His mind began to stop, then speed up as if it couldn’t go fast enough- lacing each thought together with a dagger, to the botanical books and to the deepest myths he had glanced over from Javert’s home country, to the coughing and leaving the room every single _goddamn_ time: Javert was in love.

The idea clicked so swiftly, it made sense, the men in prison with wished partners at home- they fell in love so hard and so _violently,_ until Valjean could hardly look away from men dying, so peacefully in their cells, flowers blooming out of the cracks of the walls. A gentle ending to a life of pure suffering that they did not deserve, did not ask for, and silently slipped to heaven. Invisible hands twisted around his neck- who had Javert socialised with? Who caused this?

Coworkers and the policemen that appeared at the house at random hours of the day, to drop off paperwork that made Javert scowl uncontrollably were never considered friends by him, he didn’t walk the length of the city without Valjean. Javert constantly visited the alms, having quite a few people he talked to regularly in the odd way he did: abrupt and awkward, but it was clear he was trying.Something, _someone,_ happened while he was gone- oh God, how long had he been ill? There was no one-

_Wait._

_How had he not realized?_

The entire room began to burn, Javert coughing and Valjean was an eclipse. A blazing sun that was nurtured beautifully by the pattern of the moon, but every eon the moon blocked the path, and the sun began to freeze. No, _no,_ it did not. But everyone would stare into the sky in awe, sure that it would not show again- until it did. Out of sight, out of mind. Valjean had caused this; every moment of suffering, an entire week of pain- more than that: he had caused it. Oh. _Oh._

His stomach churned in pain, a tight squeeze in his chest and his eyes held every emotion and none at once. His friend. He had caused a dear friend to be in such _pain-_ but surely, Javert’s love wasn’t one-sided! It never had been! Did the ailment continue, even despite the requited feelings? No, _no,_ he hadn’t confessed! He was a fool, oh goodness, he had to tell somebody, had to wake Javert! The idea that he and Javert couldn’t grow together, the idea physically burned- the idea that they couldn’t be old fools together! He knew Javert was strong, incredibly so, but he was recovering, the man’s mental state was still shaky, and physical illness hurt him most of all. Good God! Javert had spent the entire week in pain, must have been for longer! The ring in his pocket sat heavily- he hadn’t confessed, he had to wake Javert up, and stop this. 

“Javert,” he said breathlessly, his voice not sounding like his own as he shook the man’s shoulder. “Javert.”

“Monsieur, blackouts are common for patients,” the doctor said, mumbling something to the barber that thankfully made him depart- but the comfort was minimal. “He cannot be waken at the moment- this is… Quite the illness. I’ve seen it in the alleys.”

He winced. “He can’t hear me?”

“I do apologize monsieur, but he cannot,” the doctor spoke with such a resigned tone, it made Valjean want to shout, shake the man by the shoulders- there had to be something he could do! He couldn’t just sit here and do nothing! 

“Will- When will he wake up?”

“Ah, perhaps, soon. Truly little we can do when he is resting, besides keeping him comfortable- for example, propping him up with pillows so he doesn’t suffocate.” The word rang in Valjean’s ears. “Is there any chance of bringing the woman here, possibly for an confession, or ah, a farewell?”

“No, no, it’s-“ he swallowed. “It’s-“

Javert broke into another coughing fit. This time- sobs were laced on every gasp, and something bordering on a scream shot out of his throat, his hands jerking as if he were tangled in something, someone-

“I refuse!” The incoherent, messy words left Javert’s lips that harboured a pain he had never heard before- rage furrowing his brow and despite the fact that the words were a jumble, the terror was evident. 

“Please!” Valjean practically begged the doctor. “There’s something you have to be able to do- he’s dying!”

“Monsieur, there’s truly nothing we can do-“ 

Angry coughs that produced constant flowers erupted from the inspector, the doctor holding Valjean back and away from the other- he had to do something! He could not be helpless again! 

  
  


_The winds did not let up._

_The devil held Javert by the chin, gasping in pain as flowers bloomed in his veins, cutting through the skin without hesitation. The dreamworld was shattering in on itself, blood slipping from his nose and seemingly his lips, oh God, pain filled every breath like never before, and his thoughts began to disintegrate. His throat was being shred to nothing, and the devil-_

“Javert!” 

_Valjean’s clear voice swarmed into the air- coming from above and below- and Javert tried to call back, tried to flex his fingers or flutter his eyes, but he couldn’t breathe- each gasp was another pain._

_“Javert, inspector,” the devil hissed, twisting through his various names, desperate for the attention. “Look at me. Look at me! If you give up, the pain will stop. It’s so easy, just let go of the rope, just like the river, one more time. And this time you will finally, finally be at peace.”_

_“I don’t- I don’t want to die,” Javert rasped painfully. “I don’t think I want to. I don’t want to die.”_

_“Nobody ever does, in the moment. But oh, just think how good it will feel to finally be free, nobody can hurt you there. It’s dark. Peaceful.”_

_“I want to-“ his words were cut off by a cough. “I want to go back to the garden- I want to go home-“_

_“It’s not safe there, you’re safe here, who knows you better than your own mind? The pain will be gone, you will finally, finally be happy.”_

_“This isn’t happiness,” he seethed, terribly weak. “Let me go!”_

_The devil shushed him, pulling Javert into his false arms, but the inspector jerked away, feeling as if a phantom had gone through him._

_“No!” Javert gasped, staggering away from the demon as if he could escape his own mind. “I want-“_

_“Javert, stop it, you know what’s going to happen if you-“_

_His hand landed on the melting doorknob to the garden- and his dream shuddered more viciously than before. The burning metal scarred his fingers, and he forced the door open._

_“Stop it- you act as if he’s your family- as if he’s something more than what the two of you are now. He doesn’t care about you- Javert, he’s going to hurt you!”_

_He forced onwards, stepping into the air. It gave no relief, only a burning sensation of the pull of distorted freedom- desperation filled him. He had to get out. He had to!_

_Something clicked in his mind._

_He wanted to be alive. And somehow, he wanted to go home and be with Valjean- whether as gentle friendship or something more, and for the first time since childhood- he desperately wanted to go home. But home had changed, so powerfully, the word lost and gained its entire meaning again, and again- and the word family. He hadn’t changed Paris yet with his ideas, hadn’t learned how to draw, he hadn’t seen the flowers bloom yet. Family. It always hung on his figure like an ill-fitted uniform- but this time, he was sure. And if this God forsaken devil would lurk in the depths of his mind in the presence of insecurity, so be it. He refused to die. He had always been stubborn. So, he would live._

_He stood, walking down the fuzzy steps-_

“Oh God, Javert- please, please wake up!”

_The voice from the sky that crumbled down the dream and the spirit of everything bad clawed after him as his feet touched the grass. Flowers bloomed. He wanted to be alive. He knew- he knew that perhaps nightmares would continue, perhaps he would be met with nothing but pain- but if he could just see Valjean one last time before he- his breath stopped, and the cries grew._

“He’s not breathing! You have to help him!”

_Javert closed his eyes. He couldn’t rely on Valjean to pull him out of this one too. He scowled. He had to be alive- and oh, what had that devil said? It didn’t matter- he’d figure it out. He wanted to- a desperation that made his vision twist with pure desire- he wanted to do something. He put a hand on his chest- silent. There was no pulse._

_“Javert- stop it! Look at me! Stop it!” The devil shouted from behind him, from beyond the cloudless horizon and the roaring waters of the Seine. He’d never go back. “You’re going to-“_

_He slammed a fist to his chest, a violent cough leaving his throat, and above him: more cries. This time, he’d figure it out, this time he had a family. This time he had himself._

_He turned towards the figure that clouded his mind. “I’m going home.”_

_“Javert, that’s not your home!” The spirit purely of insecurity screeched, imitating the voice. “You need to stay- please!”_

_Abandonment- one of the fatal flaws he knew about himself. The terror, the thought that everything could be taken so swiftly, the idea of a pendulum never swinging back. The spirit in front of him- it was Javert. A piece of him that would undoubtedly appear again._

_“I’m going home,” he repeated, firmly, and held the spirit’s gaze as the wind roared in his ears, flower petals swarming his vision. So much more peaceful than his first departure. Perhaps, perhaps, it would be his last. “And you will too.”_

  
  


And Javert woke up.

The second his eyes opened, a blissful warmth swept him up in the form of a man’s arms. 

“Oh my- Javert, I was _so_ sure- I was sure that you-“

“I love you.”

The words slipped out of his lips before he could reign the burning in, and for a moment, Valjean was silent. Javert’s heart began to heighten yet again, buzzing in his chest blooming yet again, and he prepared, he prepared for everything to come crashing down, but oh God, he was satisfied- he saw Valjean one last time, and now he could fade into flowers with a epitaph of forgettable words and a shallow grave-

“You silly, foolish man,” Valjean swore to himself, his cheeks wet as a broken smile appeared on his face. Footsteps departed the room, and the door clicked closed. Privacy. “God, I should’ve told you earlier, and we could have-“

And Javert shushed him with a kiss.

In such contrast to the brutal thing Javert had exchanged with his own terror, it was beautiful. Full of such a yearning, and who knew how long they held it for: both were so sure that the other would evaporate right in front of them, and soon, so soon, it turned to loving laughter. Javert’s shoulders shook, tears dripping onto the sheets, but he didn’t care. Couldn’t. Wouldn’t. The two men equally sobbed and laughed into each other’s lips, grinning against each other with something more than hysterics: colors and flowers and everything holy spilling out of their shared home, and yes, true love. 

“Javert, I didn’t mean for any of this to happen,” Valjean rushed, choking on a gasp out once they hesitantly broke apart. “And there’s so much I need to tell you and I should’ve come home earlier and I should have told you-“

“Hush,” Javert said hoarsely, but the burning in his chest: gone. Relief like no other bloomed through his mind, and he gave Valjean a tug on the sleeve, patting the empty bed next to him. “You did everything right. Not your fault, Jean, I won’t have you blaming yourself. Now from _my_ perspective- I must apologize profusely for all of this- this ridiculous situation is going to make it that you feel as if you can never leave again-“

Valjean pulled Javert into his embrace, shushing him quickly as he climbed into bed with the other man, grinning like a madman. At last- a first name basis. “Nonsense! I have my freedom and you have yours, you had no control over such a thing. No need to apologize! That’s not my inspector! I do love you,” Valjean said, happily snuggled into him. “Very much. And I was horrified I was going to lose you- I was terrified. Still am. Slightly concerned I’m dreaming.”

“Surprisingly, I’m here. Not dead,” Javert said, moving infinitely closer to Valjean’s body. God, he was so tired, but words weren’t enough to describe it, relief tumbled over him, Valjean pressing a kiss to his temples. He felt so goddamn _loved._ He had never felt like this before- oh God. He sobbed. He felt so _happy._ “And I don’t, hm, entirely hate flowers.”

“Oh, thank goodness. I couldn’t bare to rid of the garden we made- oh! It’s another reminder that you are alive.” Valjean laced their hands together, forcing down a relieved sob, burying himself in the inspector’s neck and long hair. In what world has he ever felt so loved, so overjoyed, so warm? This one. He had not expected, but it was this one- he peered at the man, not bothering to hide his gaze, saturated with love- oh, he was so glad it was this one. He pressed a kiss to the man’s shoulder, grinning madly. “We both are.”

Both of them wept from the intimacy that they had been grasping at for so long. Platonic for so long- but ah, not anymore. Valjean sighed dreamily, running his fingers up and down the other’s vulnerable neck, terror gone and love in its place. He couldn’t wait: all the laughable romantic things, bring him to Cosette’s home in the countryside, to lapse into something more physical, something closer, that reddened his cheeks at simply the thought, or perhaps not. _Good God, I love you,_ he thought, running his lips along the man’s jawline, fingers curling into his skin, so desperately. _And I have nothing but determination to assure that you spend every day knowing how loved you are. I cannot erase your troubles, I cannot cure all sadness, but I can love you. And I will love you through every single moment of it._

Javert nodded, pressed into the other’s chest, being held in the perfect way. Perhaps he felt silly, vulnerable with his belly exposed- if he did, he didn’t mind. It seemed to touch a part of his mind that has never been relieved before- he let out an audible exhale. He could breathe. And every night where it physically hurt to be held- knowing that it would never be anything but platonic, they were gone. No, he did not know how to love, but the man in front of him was love. He had never been truly sure of anything, but he knew it. This was love.

Words tumbled from his lips. Cheesy, ridiculous ones that made his heart give a flutter, a reminder that once morning came, a whole new set of chaos would flourish- but true, real words nonetheless. 

“Ah, I’m home.”

A delighted laugh from the man beside him.

And, perhaps for the first time, both were in such bliss, such raw love, for life bared its sharp teeth at every turn until the teeth were nothing but silly smooth things, and bit with nothing but resignation. And perhaps, the teeth would be sharpened by morning, perhaps the flower petals would be ripped to pieces, but in that moment, it could not. For they had each other, both men were more than enough and they could whether any storm that daybreak could bring- and of course, in each other’s arms, they slept in the perfect peace they had never known until then. 

And perhaps, they did not know how to love, but they had each other. So, stubborn and sarcastic as ever, the two fools would learn how together: hand in hand.


End file.
